


Melt Your Headaches, Call it Home

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 230,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: An absolutely unconnected set of Tumblr prompts. Unless, sometimes, when they are connected. All of them are, however, about Captain Swan and happily ever after and banter and, sometimes, inexplicable magic.





	1. In Case of Emergency, Call...

It hurts like hell.

And, honestly, it’s absolutely his fault. He shouldn’t have tried to balance like that, but the stupid bottle was stuffed in the back corner of the cabinet and he’d probably yell at Scarlet about that at some point, but that might require him to be able to move and he couldn’t really do that.

He’s not entirely sure how he even drove to the hospital.

It’s all kind of been a blur of pain and frustration and just general disappointment in his clear lack of balance, but mostly it’s just been pain and Killian groans when he flips to another sheet of questions and another sheet of paper and he wonders if he just should have put ice on his ankle.

His ankle, however, seems to have taken that as a personal challenge because it’s swollen to the size of a grapefruit. At least he’s assuming it’s the size of a grapefruit. He can’t think of the last time he’s even looked in the general direction of a grapefruit.  
  
“God, fucking hell,” Killian grumbles, drawing the ire of, at least, five different people in this incredibly overcrowded emergency room. It’s almost too crowded in this emergency room and incredibly loud.

He can feel the headache threatening in the bottom of his skull, a dull pain that’s almost distracting enough to make him forget about the variety of different fruits and vegetables his ankle is slowly but surely morphing into.

Killian heaves another sigh, something bordering just a bit on desperate and Scarlet would laugh at him. Nolan would laugh at him. Mary Margaret would try to get ice on his ankle. Swan would…

He blinks quickly, breathing coming faster and it’s absolutely absurd to be bordering somewhere close to panting in this incredibly crowded waiting room, but it’s a dangerous train of thought particularly when he’s trying not to actually start whimpering at how much his goddamn, fucking ankle hurts.

He’s going to kill Scarlet.

Who puts vanilla extract in the back of the corner like that?  
  
Probably someone who has absolutely no idea what vanilla extract even is.

This is insane.

The guy in the seat two rows away from Killian appears to be suffering from second-degree burns while a small army of, what appears to be, every single member of his family chastises him for trying to _burn down the house_ and he just keeps mentioning _the turkey_ and how _they practiced_ and Killian tries not to laugh too loudly.

It hurts his ankle.

And the headache that’s slowly, but surely becoming a migraine.

There’s a crying kid three seats away from him and a frantic emergency room staff and the soft Christmas music playing in the background seems to grow louder with every shriek of another injured human being and another shift of the automatic doors at the other end of the room and every time those doors open a waft of absolutely freezing air rushes into the room and the whole thing starts over again because, apparently, none of these injured and possibly dying human beings can deal with seasonable temperatures and wind chills.

“How are there more questions,” Killian mumbles to himself and someone laughs under their breath a few seats away. He tries not to move his leg when he twists around to follow the sound and a woman smiles softly at him and it almost makes his ankle return to its biologically determined size.

“It’s as if they want to make sure they’re able to track you down for the rest of your life, isn’t it?” she asks, the smile still on her face as she peers at him over the top of her own receptionist-provided clipboard. She sits up a bit straighter when Killian just lifts his eyebrows, shaking the bright, red hair off her shoulders and regarding him like a very particular type of challenge. “You give them your social security number yet?”  
  
Killian tilts his head. “That’s question number one. That and your address and insurance number.”  
  
“And your emergency contact.”  
  
He hums noncommittally, gaze falling back towards his clipboard and small pile of paperwork and he’s almost surprised that the pen in his hand hasn’t run out of ink yet. God, there must be several trillion germs on this pen.

He should start carrying his own pens. And antibacterial hand...stuff.

Emma keeps it in her purse, tiny little triangles of plastic and he teases her about _buying in bulk_ and she swats at his shoulder, but it’s kind of true because no one appreciates the Bath and Body Works semi-annual sale more than Emma Swan.

She buys twenty-seven raspberry-scented antibacterial things every six months.

It’s the single most goddamn endearing thing Killian’s ever seen.

The redhead is still staring at him like she can read his mind and Killian blinks, trying to shift in the plastic seat he’s probably going to be required to pay rent on soon. He wonders how they make those seats. They’re all connected. They can’t be easy to make.

This is, easily, the most absurd Thanksgiving he’s ever had and, once, when he was fifteen Liam set six different towels on fire when they tried to use the ancient oven in their apartment.

“You look very pensive,” the redhead comments, twisting her mouth and Killian shivers slightly under her stare.

She looks like she knows things.

Or, at least, pretends to know things.  
  
He’s not sure what’s worse.

“I was considering how a company made all of these connecting seats,” he admits, nodding towards the occupied mess of plastic and metal and, he assumes, a considerable number of screws. “Seems like a lot of production work.”  
  
The redhead laughs. It’s loud and slightly jarring, but also a little musical and it would probably give Mary Margaret a run for her decidedly _perfect_ money.

Killian feels his eyes widen slightly and the woman scoots to the end of her chair, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands and she can _absolutely_ read his mind. “Are you some kind of psychic?” he asks. It’s insanity, but his ankle is throbbing and he swears he can feel it expanding and he wore sandals to the emergency room because even the idea of putting on sneakers hurt.

He’s an absolutely terrible injured person.

He just wants to whine or sigh dramatically sixty-two times and he wishes….a lot of very sentimental, decidedly inappropriate _holiday_ things and it doesn’t matter because none of them are in the city this weekend.

She’s not in the city this weekend.

He and his grapefruit ankle are going to have to go it alone.

He hopes his car doesn’t get towed. That would suck. He’s fairly certain he’s parked in a fire lane.

“What did you do?” the redhead asks, nodding towards his stretched out leg and it’s probably not good to be holding so much tension in his foot, but he can’t unbend it, so it seems better than just actually losing his mind in this waiting room.

He still hasn’t filled out _emergency contact_ or even tried to stand up.

Killian’s fairly certain he needs to do both if he wants to see a doctor. He’d just like some kind of pain medication and for someone to, maybe, tell him if he actually broke his goddamn ankle so he can steel himself for the resounding jokes and laughter when he tells his friends he broke his own ankle.

“I fell,” Killian says simply and the redhead quirks an eyebrow. “Rolled my ankle, heard a very distinct crack, sat on the floor for a little while and then when I was fairly certain it had grown to the size of two ankles, I drove myself to the emergency room.”  
  
That almost seems to impress her. “You drove yourself here? How did you move the pedal?”

“My pain tolerance is very impressive.”  
  
It’s an absolute lie. He’d groaned and growled and muttered curses the entire drive to the ER, but it wasn’t even a full mile and he couldn’t rationalize an ambulance or pay for an ambulance and his car’s definitely going to get towed.

God fucking hell.

“Yuh huh,” she says and the judgement seems to roll off her in waves. “That’s why you keep mumbling things under your breath and scandalizing half the people in here.”  
  
“Are you not scandalized? And do you have a name, psychic?”

“I’m not a psychic.”  
  
“That was not an answer to either one of my questions.”

She laughs again and someone actually has the audacity to _shush_ them, but it looks like a particularly put-upon nurse with scrubs that are almost phosphorescent. Killian feels his eyes get even wider.

“Ariel,” the woman tells him and he’s only just noticed she’s got a nasty burn on her forearm. He moves before he thinks about it, leaning forward and practically yelping when he finally shifts his foot and….

“Holy fuck, that hurts,” he shouts and one elderly woman looks like she’s about to smack him with her purse. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Killian mumbles, waving his hand through the air and Ariel’s whole body shakes with the force of her laughter. “It just...you know...it hurts.”  
  
“Yeah, I think they got that,” she chuckles, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “And I’m not scandalized because I work with teenage kids and you are like...frightfully similar.”  
  
“That almost seems kind of rude.”  
  
“Oh, it definitely is, but I am also in a considerable amount of pain and if you get to start shouting curse words at innocent bystanders, then I think I can be rude to strangers.”  
  
He barks out a laugh and it hurts every single one of his very tense muscles. He should finish filling out his paperwork. He wants something that will make his entire foot feel numb. “Killian Jones,” he offers and Ariel furrows her eyebrows. “Now we’re even. And not strangers, well, not complete strangers. How’d you burn your arm?”  
  
She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling and lets out a noise that’s somewhere between sarcastic and just generally disappointed. “It’s the single most depressing story in the world.”  
  
“I promise it’s not.”  
  
Killian doesn’t mean for the words to fall out of his mouth, but his ankle has its own pulse of pain or something equally absurd at this point and Ariel’s arm really looks vaguely horrible and that kid who was crying before is now bawling and the sentence just seems to land at his feet before his brain has even decided he’s thinking it.

“Is it not?” Ariel asks and it’s almost _too_ obvious how hard she’s trying to keep the accusation out of her voice. He reaches his arm back to scratch lightly behind his ear, tugging on the hair that’s just barely curling there and Emma would tell him…

God.

Enough.

The pen in his hand suddenly feels very heavy. And Ariel hasn’t blinked in days. At least. It feels like they’ve been in this emergency room for days.

“Probably not,” Killian mutters. The pen falls on the ground.

Ariel all but leaps off her seat to grab it for him, holding her uninjured arm out like she’s dealing with a wounded animal. “What’s the most depressing story in the world?” she asks softly, nodding towards the one open line left on his paperwork.

Killian considers his options and his stories and it seems kind of pointless to tell the truth, but lying seems like some kind of holiday-based sin as well and he finds himself trusting Ariel whatever her last name is.

She never told him her last name.

Or how she burned her arm.

The truth seems to just fall out of him again.

“Grown man, alone for Thanksgiving weekend, injures self while trying to get vanilla extract out of the cabinet his roommate inexplicably pushed into the back corner of said cabinet,” he starts. “Falls, possibly breaks ankle and, as previously discussed, drives self to emergency room where he proceeds to scandalize a whole population of injured human beings and spend several minutes being psychic’ed by a stranger with very red hair who seems to be avoiding specific questions.”

“You’re really harping on this psychic thing, aren’t you?” Killian nods slowly and Ariel’s eyes flash knowingly like the idea has just reached out and slapped her. Or burned her. “Oh my God,” she shouts, jumping slightly and that one elderly lady is going to murder them both. That probably won’t help the emergency room’s efficiency. “What’s her name?”

Killian blinks and Ariel cackles and someone _else_ shushes them. 

“I…” he stammers, shaking his head like that’s a response and his heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of his chest. He barely even feels his ankle. Maybe that’s a sign. God, he hopes that’s not a sign.

He wishes Emma were here.

And usually she is.

Usually they have some kind of unspoken agreement about Thanksgiving and Christmas and days without mail or 24-hour banking services. They make food in her far-too-small oven and she makes fun of his handwritten schedules - _you’re going to blow your apartment up otherwise, Swan, that oven is ancient and dangerous_ \- and he teases her about whatever set of pajamas she’s bought for the specific holiday and they both like to play Grinch, but it’s difficult to settle into that role when they’re so busy smiling at each other.

Or, well, at least he is.

He constantly finds himself smiling around her.

And it’s been some kind of tradition for years, the two of them, the ones without incredibly extensive extended families and a cynicism that seems run just a bit deeper every year, lacking designated _partners_ in their group of friends that they just stumbled into, and they always seemed to gravitate to each other, particularly on these kinds of days.

It’s always them.

Until it’s not and Mary Margaret and David have been begging them to come to that tiny town in Maine for years with an almost excessive amount of family and Emma says yes and she’s not in the city on Thanksgiving, a quiet apology on her lips when she tells him _I don’t have to go if you don’t want me to_.

He tells her to go.

He regrets he immediately.

He wonders what patterned pajamas she wears when she wakes up early to watch the parade.

He realizes, rather suddenly, he is the world’s biggest idiot.

And his ankle is killing him.

Still. Always. Indefinitely.

There’s some kind of lesson in there.

“Ah, alright,” Ariel says, like some kind mystic and soothsayer and _psychic_ all rolled into one. She drops down onto the table a few feet in front of Killian’s seat. The pen is still on the floor. “So, like...have you loved her forever or only just realized it after possibly breaking your ankle? I’m not sure which one is more sweepingly romantic, actually.”  
  
Killian’s mouth feels dry and his tongue feels too big for his mouth and for a guy who was just babbling truth before, he suddenly seems to have forgotten every word in the English language. Ariel smiles, leaning forward to rest her hand on his knee. It doesn’t surprise him as much as it probably should.

Emma would like her.

Mary Margaret may try to adopt her.

“Or,” Ariel continues, dragging the word out until it sounds as if she’s reading the Mayflower Compact. “You’ve been in love with her for as long as you can remember and you’ve known it forever and this whole ankle debacle has just kind of thrown into stark focus how much you want to write her name on that line.”

“I don’t think that line is a requirement,” Killian mumbles and it sounds as pitiful out loud as it did in his head.

Ariel squeezes his knee. “That’s a pretty lame excuse.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Her hair falls in her eyes when she laughs, the ends brushing over the top of his jeans and it’s almost cathartic, telling someone, or, at least, agreeing to someone telling him.

And he knows he should tell Emma.

He _wants_ to tell Emma, but he’s slightly terrified of what telling Emma means and he’s not sure his ankles can hold up to another Thanksgiving weekend on his own.

“Well, there’s something to be said for being self-aware,” Ariel grins and Killian rolls his eyes in a response that probably isn’t polite considering they met each other a few minutes before. “Are you just, like, pining for this girl? Because that’s also pretty lame.”  
  
“You have a questionable number of opinions on a situation that absolutely does not involve you at all.”  
  
She shrugs. “I’m a pushover for a good romance. And pining, but, you know, within reason.”  
  
“What’s reasonable?”  
  
“Even having to ask that question suggests that we’ve gone beyond the point of reason. Does she know you’re painfully in love with her?”  
  
Killian quirks an eyebrow and he’s going to have to ask for another pen. The one on the floor has mysteriously disappeared. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say painful,” he mutters, but it’s an admission and that’s more than he’s been able to do before.

Scarlet is going to be furious some stranger got to have this conversation with him.

He hopes Scarlet never finds out.

“Eh,” Ariel clicks her tongue. “How’s your ankle feel?”  
  
Killian barks out a laugh. It hurts. “That seems almost too heavy-handed, don’t you think?”

“You love her?”  
  
It’s a simple question in theory, but Killian’s not entirely unconvinced Ariel isn’t some kind of ghost of Thanksgiving present sent to help him fix his entire life and get him some heavy-duty pain medication.

She lifts her eyebrows slowly, as if she’s challenging him to argue it and he absolutely can’t.

He doesn’t really want to.

And his mind is already drifting - to forced introductions when David brought him to the bar one night after a particularly difficult day at the precinct and they hadn’t gotten the guy and all he wanted to do was drink until everything went just a bit fuzzy, but then Mary Margaret was bringing a friend and the friend had blonde hair that, in his alcohol-induced haze, seemed to look a little bit like sunlight and her eyes were green and staring straight at him and he dimly remembers trying to smile.

She bought him a shot of rum and shivered when she downed her own in one, quick gulp and maybe he fell in love with her there.

He probably did.

He absolutely did.

It went from there. She worried about him and he worried about her and he bought three cartons of rocky road ice cream when she had to get stitches on her cheek after a skip threw a wicked right hook that left a light scar just above her jaw.

He found himself tracing it whenever she fell asleep on his couch, head resting on his thigh and those renovation shows they both like to watch in the background.

“Well,” Ariel prompts and Killian’s momentarily so stunned to find himself still sitting in that waiting room that he almost overlooks the actual absurdity of this entire conversation. “Do you love her? Or still love her? You look like you’ve loved her for awhile. Oh! Does she have a name? What’s her name?”  
  
He blinks. And the words seem to tumble out of him again. “Emma,” he breathes and his voice sounds just a bit reverent, even to his own ears. Ariel beams at him. “Her name is Emma. And, yeah, for awhile.”  
  
Ariel’s jaw is probably going to sustain permanent damage from smiling so hard, but she doesn’t seem particularly upset by it and Killian’s sure she could probably use a distraction from whatever happened to her arm. “Here,” she says, ducking down to fish something out of a bag he hadn’t noticed before. She brandishes a pen at him and it looks absurdly fancy. The moment suddenly feels even more important. “I bet she’ll come.”

He takes the pen before he can think better of it and he doesn’t even have to pull his phone out to copy her number from his contacts.

That probably means something.

Ariel hands in the clipboard for him, something about _don’t put weight on that_ lingering in the air as she sprints back towards the receptionist’s desk and it only takes a few more minutes for someone to shout his name.

Killian winces when he hobbles towards actual medical personnel and away from a different kid who’s only recently started crying and Ariel flashes him a thumbs up with both hands. “Hey,” he says, nearly growling when his body spins before his mind remembers his ankle is probably broken. “What did you do to your arm?”  
  
Ariel flushes as red as her hair, scrunching her nose and chewing on her lip and the nurse behind him sounds decidedly impatient. “It’s really lame,” she warns and Killian widens his eyes. “I was trying to surprise my fiancé and his family with some kind of huge, traditional dinner and I couldn’t lift the turkey and I burned my arm.”  
  
“Where’s the fiancé?”  
  
“He and his uncle brought me here, but then he had to bring the uncle back home and has been trying to find somewhere to park for the last forty-five minutes while you brooded about unrequited love and scandalized a waiting room.”  
  
Killian scoffs, but she’s kind of right and he hopes his car has been impounded. “Thanks for the pen,” he says and Ariel’s answering smile probably could have cooked an entire, traditional Thanksgiving feast.

He’s not entirely sure why they moved him.

It seems more like a formality than anything because Killian’s just waiting in a different location now and he doesn’t even have Ariel’s vaguely inappropriate, slightly invasive questions to distract him.

He only has his own thoughts and at some indeterminate time on Thanksgiving night, when his stomach is growling and he hopes the mess he left in his apartment doesn’t stain his kitchen floor, Killian is leaning more towards _insufferable_ than actual human being.

And he gets it. He does. It’s a holiday and there are plenty of people worse off than him, but the headache hasn’t gone away and his ankle is somewhere close to purple and, really, he’s so hungry at this point that he’d accept hospital-provided jello.

He’s momentarily distracted from his own food wants, however, when he hears a commotion around the corner and a voice that sounds decidedly familiar and his stomach, empty or otherwise, is suddenly twisted into several dozen knots.

Killian sees her before she sees him and it makes his breath catch in his throat.

There are streaks under her eyes, like she’s been rubbing them and the mascara isn’t quite as perfect as it normally is, as if she’s been blinking or trying not to cry and her shoulders move quickly when she tries to catch her breath.

She keeps twisting her fingers, even when a handful of medical personnel sporting a variety of different scrubs patterns and stethoscopes try to tell her _you can’t be back here ma’am_ and Killian laughs softly because if Emma Swan is one thing, it’s stubborn and she’s not going to leave until she gets some goddamn answers.

Or so she tells the handful of medical personnel.

“Jones,” she says and it’s clear it’s not the first time she’s shouted his name at unsuspecting doctors and nurses. “Killian Jones. He’s somewhere in this hospital and I know this because someone in this hospital called to tell me that and it’s some kind of miracle I didn’t get a speeding ticket to be here. So I am here and I want to know where he is and what’s wrong and…”

She runs out of air.

And it might be the single most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

He’s obviously lost his mind, a mix of pain and exhaustion and hunger all coming to some kind of metaphorical head to leave him swooning on an incredibly uncomfortable hospital bed.

“Ma’am,” a doctor says slowly, reaching out towards Emma when she starts to pace and Killian smiles. It feels slightly out of place.

She showed up.

Emma backs up into another nurse and a cart with things that are probably expensive and they’re all suddenly on the floor and she’s too busy apologizing to anyone who will listen that she doesn’t hear him calling her name until the fourth time he says it.  
  
“Swan,” Killian shouts, twisting on the mattress and it must be made of rocks because he can’t find a single spot that doesn’t make him groan a little bit. “Swan!” He rolls his eyes when she still doesn’t move and if his ankle isn’t actually broken, he’s going to be disappointed that he doesn’t stand up, walk over to her and kiss her.

Soundly.

On the mouth.

She showed up.  
  
“Emma,” he calls and she hears that, spinning on the spot with wide eyes and her mouth hanging open and neither one seems to be able to catch their breath.

She blinks eight times - he counts - and drags her knuckles across her cheeks, leaving red streaks in her wake that seem to highlight that one scar and he can’t move. He can’t really stand up. “Oh my God,” she mumbles and no one tries to stop her when she takes a step towards him, hand landing on his shoulder and he leans into it.

Her hand is warm.

“Are you ok?” Emma asks, voice shaking slightly. Killian can feel it in every inch of him. And possibly in his ankle. “What...they wouldn’t actually tell me anything on the phone, just that you were here and they had my number and…” She takes another deep breath and blinks three more times and when she glances at him there are tears in her eyes. “What happened?”

“I didn’t think they’d actually call you,” Killian mutters. It’s not what he plans on saying. That seems like a trend.  
  
“Yeah, that’s what that lady outside said.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“That lady outside,” Emma repeats. “She...well, I didn’t really understand half of what she was saying, but she actually gave me her number for some reason. She seemed very certain there was a story and she wanted to know the ending and she was very positive about who I was. I think she was more excited to see me than you are, honestly.”  
  
Killian tries to laugh, but it comes out like some sort of strangled noise that doesn’t really sound entirely human. “Not possible,” he promises, twisting slightly to wrap his fingers around her wrist. Emma smiles when he squeezes slightly. “This woman in the waiting room...she didn’t happen to have incredibly red hair, did she?”  
  
“Yeah, like fire-engine red, but I got the very quick impression I shouldn’t actually mention that. Honestly she, like, screeched when I ran in.”  
  
He lifts his eyebrows at that and swears Emma flushes slightly, tugging her lips back behind her teeth when her eyes fall to the ground. “Ran in, Swan?” he asks. She huffs in response. “They really called you? I can’t believe that...I wouldn’t have put your name down if…”  
  
“What?” she whispers. Killian hears her perfectly.

“I, uh….ok, you have to promise not to laugh.”  
  
“I absolutely will not promise that.”  
  
“Swan, I am wounded.”  
  
“Did you cut yourself?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes. “Wounded implies an actual wound,” she explains. “God, did you actually cut yourself or something? Because I really don’t know if I’m up for watching you getting forty-two stitches. You know how I feel about blood.”  
  
He does. She doesn’t like it. At all. David got hurt on the job one year and he needed seventeen stitches when he sliced his hand on a piece of broken glass and Emma had gone white as a sheet at even the mention of it.

Killian waited in the hospital lobby with her, fingers twisted up with Emma’s and muttered encouragements in her ear that were as much for him as anything.

“No stitches, Swan,” Killian promises, tugging her hand away from his shoulder and wrapping her fingers up in his. He resists the very real urge to brush kisses across her knuckles and it’s a struggle, but she’s here and she can’t stop biting her lip and asking questions because he wrote her name on a line labeled _emergency contact_.

“Then…” Emma starts and he can almost see the light bulb go off over her head, eyes flitting towards his ankle and the awkward position it’s still in. He’s half convinced it’ll stay like that forever. He’s never going to get pain medication. “Killian,” she mutters, free hand drifting over his leg. It feels like electricity. “How did you even get down here?”  
  
“Sheer force of will,” he answers, drawing a laugh out of her. It’s almost as good as pain medication. Almost. His ankle hurts like hell.

“And how exactly did you become walking wounded?”  
  
“That was clever, Swan.”  
  
She grimaces at him and she knows it’s a deflection. He knows she knows. The nurse around the corner probably knows. “I really won’t laugh,” she promises, brushing the hair away from his eyes and he tries not to sigh against the feeling of it, but it doesn’t really work. He’ll blame his ankle. Probably for the rest of his life. “I...well, I was crazy worried. I thought David was going to force me to let him drive because I was half convinced you were dead or picking up extra hours for time and a half without telling me. I came up with some really heinous ways for you to be dead on my way here.”  
  
Oh.

He didn’t even think about that.

He’s not just the world’s biggest idiot, he’s the world’s biggest asshole and he can’t believe she was that worried.

Well, no, he can, but even the thought of it makes his heart beat faster and he’s hooked up to several different machines because he can’t get pain medication, but he can get absolutely embarrassed by science.

“They wouldn’t let me back here at first,” Emma continues. “I was standing out in that lobby and that redheaded lady was promising me you were in here and she said you could barely walk and they said it had to be immediate family, but the hospital called me and they...they said you were hurt and you were alone and I just...I had to get back here so I told them…”

She can’t seem to finish a sentence. And if he were thinking clearer he probably would have waited, he would have sat there for days until she said the words, but his ankle hurt and he just wanted to go home and he didn’t care about anything except Emma being there.

“I would have told you if I was doing that, love,” Killian says. Emma doesn’t look convinced. And it takes him, approximately, four seconds and one slightly louder-than-normal machine to decide _fuck it_ , wrapping his fingers back around hers and kissing the curve of her knuckles.

She doesn’t pull away.

He feels like that’s a sign.

“That’s what Mary Margaret said,” Emma mumbles. She’s blinking again. “She...well, she’s the one who got me to actually breathe when I got off the phone with the hospital and, you know, she’s here so she gave me hot chocolate and cookies and, oh shit, are you hungry?”  
  
“Starving.” Emma grins, waving both hands in the air and dropping a bag on the edge of his bed. It shakes the whole mattress. “God, Swan, how many bricks did you bring back from Maine.”  
  
“Don’t insult Mary Margaret’s baking like that.” Killian laughs and it only takes a few moments and several dozen receipts to find the plastic bag full of half-broken cookies. Emma makes a face. “Oh, man, that’s kind of lame, isn’t it?”

Killian shakes his head. He’d like to kiss her again. “No, love,” he says and that’s the second endearment in as many minutes and Emma absolutely realizes because her eyebrows leap into her hairline. She doesn’t say anything.

“Snickerdoodle. Not as good as our chocolate chip, but it was…”

Emma trails off and Killian tries not to actually throw her bag or the cookies or the one pillow he’s been provided with across the room. At this point he’ll probably murder someone in the process and then he’ll never get to kiss Emma.

“What, Swan?” Killian asks, eyes falling towards her lower lip when her teeth threaten to tear it in half and, naturally, a doctor shows up.

There’s a name on a very impressive looking tag and he thinks he sees _Whale_ and Emma will absolutely make fun of that later. Or she would if she weren’t so busy asking questions.

Dr. Whale looks a little intimidated.  
  
“What happened?” Emma asks and Whale’s lips quirk when he glances down at Killian’s chart.

“I don’t know,” Whale says, holding up one hand when Emma sucks in a breath of air like she’s ready to start screaming her questions. “Mrs. Jones,” he adds and Killian wonders if he’s started imagining things post-starvation on Thanksgiving night. He should have asked for the jello. Emma doesn’t say anything. “We need to do some x-rays,” Whale continues. “And I need to know how your husband injured his ankle.”

Emma’s head whips around at that, eyes wide and hair moving and it’s all Killian can do not to tell her _gentle, Swan_ when she starts punching his chest. “Swan,” he mutters, trying to grab her fists. “Swan. Swan! Emma!”  
  
“Your ankle?” she cries and there are tears in her eyes again, but they’re from frustration and not the sheer terror that got her from Storybrooke, Maine to Boston in three hours and change. “You hurt your ankle! I thought you were dead!”  
  
“I’m not dead, love.”

Her shoulders drop and she exhales loudly, swallowing so that Killian can see the muscles move in her throat. He grimaces when he shifts, pushing back up and brushing his thumb across her cheek, catching a tear that had only made it halfway down.

Whale clears his throat when neither of them move for what feels like several lifetimes.

“How exactly did you injure your ankle, Mr. Jones?” he asks and Emma’s gaze falls back on Killian’s face. It’s the single worst Thanksgiving in the history of Thanksgivings.

“This is the part where you can’t laugh, Swan,” Killian mutters. “I was trying to get vanilla extract out of the cabinet above my sink and I...fell.”  
  
“Fell,” Whale echoes and Killian tries not to punch him. He hasn’t moved his hand away from Emma. “How?”  
  
“That cabinet is really high,” Emma mumbles. “Did Scarlet move it? Am I going to have to kill him?”

“Probably,” Killian admits, drawing a laugh out of her and a confused sound out of Dr. Whale. “My roommate,” he explains. “Likes to organize things when no one is looking and the vanilla extract was in the back corner of the cabinet and I needed that to make the chocolate chip cookies. I was, however, woefully unprepared for that sort of baking-type quest and didn’t have anything except a stack of absolutely ancient encyclopedias I forgot were in my closet to stand on. There was wobbling involved and a lack of balance and, well, here I am.”

Emma lets out a mirthless laugh and her ensuing punch to his shoulder doesn’t hold much weight, as if she’s giving in to the craziness of it all and he’d never been much for tradition, but they seemed to have developed one and the idea of a Thanksgiving, even one with her in Maine, without chocolate chip cookies felt a bit like heresy.

He was totally going to make her chocolate chip cookies.

And she absolutely knew it.

“You’re the biggest idiot in the entire world, you know that?” Emma grumbles and he nods in agreement, tugging lightly on the back of her coat until she’s pulled as close to the bed as possible.

He moves. “Sit down, Swan,” Killian mutters, trying not to actually hiss in pain. That doesn’t work. Emma rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t argue either and Dr. Whale looks a little stunned by the scene playing out in front of him.

It’s not easy to get them both balanced, but that’s kind of a theme for the day, and there’s barely room on the bed for him, let alone both of them and it’s, easily, the most comfortable Killian has been all day. “You can’t possibly be comfortable,” Emma mutters, twisting on her side and every single inch of her presses up against every single inch of him until Killian has to move his arm so it’s not pinned underneath her.

It’s wrapped around her instead.

“I’m fine, love,” he says and it sounds like a promise and he means it like one. “Just...don’t kick your leg out.”  
  
“Deal.”

If she realizes he kisses her hair lightly, she doesn’t say anything. Dr. Whale coughs again. “It’s going to be some time until we can get the x-rays….we’re rather backed up and you’re....”  
  
“Not dying,” Killian finishes.

Dr. Whale shrugs. “Something like that. Although I do think it might be broken. I’d imagine it’s rather painful.” Killian nods, making a face when Emma burrows her head against his shoulder in attempt from laughing out loud. “We’ll get you some medicine. Soon. Or as soon as possible.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“We can’t do anything sooner than soon?” Emma asks, sitting up straight and, at some point, her arm worked across his stomach. “Like....you know, now? I mean, look at his ankle. It’s a beach ball situation.”  
  
Killian clicks his tongue. “It’s not that bad, Swan. I’m fine.”  
  
“No you’re not. You’re you and you’re terrible at being sick and this is, like, eight-hundred times worse. Isn’t there...isn’t there something we can do?”  
  
Dr. Whale tilts his head in a way that seems to scream _thoughtful_ and Killian wishes the machines would stop doing their job. They’re very loud. And very telling. “Of course,” Dr. Whale says, eyes flitting towards Emma’s hands like he’s looking for something. “I’ll get a nurse over her in the next few minutes and as soon as we can get someone to take Mr. Jones to x-ray we’ll...take him to x-ray.”  
  
“Good,” Emma says and, well, that’s that.

She doesn’t move off the bed even after Dr. Whale leaves, just twists until her hand is flat against his stomach and her hair is threatening to work its way into his mouth. He smiles.

And they wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

And, at some point in the waiting, they decide to start analyzing people and their lives and it’s almost entertaining, but Emma’s whole body shakes when she laughs and that’s distracting in a way that nothing has ever been distracting before.

It’s only after the elderly woman who had been scandalized by his cursing before is wheeled by in a chair with her equally elderly husband next to her and the concern and...several other words that Killian refuses to acknowledge are almost palpable and he feels Emma take a deep breath. “You don’t have to stay love,” Killian says softly, mostly into her hair and he doesn’t mean that either.

He wants her to stay - still, always, indefinitely.

It takes a moment for her to acknowledge the words and he doesn’t expect her to sit up, but he didn’t entirely expect the hospital to actually call his emergency contact, so he’s clearly not in control of the situation.

Emma glares at him, the green hardly visible in her eyes and her hair seems to get brighter, like it’s trying to blind him or something.

“Shut up,” she snaps, a frustration he didn’t entirely anticipate. “I….just shut up.”  
  
“Swan…”  
  
He doesn’t get a chance to finish because there’s suddenly an orderly claiming it’s _time to see what’s wrong with that foot_ and it must be close to three in the goddamn morning because Emma glares at him too and hisses _it’s his ankle_ like it’s a life or death situation.

She thought it was.

Ah, well, fuck.

“I’ll be right back,” Killian says, glancing at Emma and it comes out like a question.

She nods. “I’ll be here.”  
  
And she is - forty-five minutes later twisted into some kind of pretzel in a chair in the waiting room. Her eyes are drooping when he comes out on crutches. Or one crutch. He can only use one crutch and it’s the single most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You look like Tiny Tim,” Emma mumbles, cracking open one eye and swinging her feet onto the floor. “Broken?”  
  
Killian rolls his eyes. “Broken.”  
  
“Jeez. Did they give you medicine or do we have to go to a pharmacy? I think there’s a 24-hour Rite Aid a couple blocks away from your apartment.”

“You don’t have to do that, Swan.”

Emma groans, shaking her hair off her shoulders and there’s a tiny container of raspberry-scented antibacterial _whatever_ in her right hand. He should probably tell her he loves her at some point before he passes out from hunger.

“Stop being stupid or I’m going to kick your crutch out from underneath you,” Emma says, but the sentence lacks the anger from before and it’s probably because she’s so tired. “I...I just want to go home.”  
  
“I think my car’s been towed.”

She shakes her head slowly and takes a step toward him, resting her palm on his chest and if he weren’t so busy balancing on one foot he’d absolutely kiss her. Probably. He’d, at the very least, think about it for the entire holiday season. “I have a car,” she whispers. “I used it to get here and break several speed limits.”

“I know you did, love. And I...I’m glad you’re here. You can just drop me off and I’ll be fine.”

“Idiot,” she mumbles and he’s called her _love_ half a dozen times. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

Emma won’t let him walk into his building on his own and it takes fifteen minutes to get up three flights of stairs when they only have three working hands and feet between the two of them and they’re both actually laughing by the end of it.

“You’re an absolute disaster,” she chuckles, tugging his keys out of his back pocket without even asking. There’s a puddle of vanilla extract on his kitchen floor. “Ah, well, at least it’ll smell good in here forever.”  
  
“Are you suggesting it doesn’t always smell good in here, Swan?” Killian asks, quirking an eyebrow and leaning up against the counter that didn’t do much to help break his fall earlier that night. The encyclopedias are still sitting there.

She doesn’t say anything, just shakes her head slowly with wide eyes and something that felt like disbelief radiating off her. “I told them I was your wife,” Emma announces, practically shouting the words in the otherwise silence apartment. “They wouldn’t let me in and I was so...I was terrified and I told them we were married and I just wanted to know you were ok.”

Killian’s still not convinced he heard her.

He licks his lips and Emma swallows again, breathing just a bit louder than usual. “Say something,” she pleads and he can’t really move, but he kind of hobbles towards her and hopes for the best when his hand lands on her hip.

“I was baking you chocolate chip cookies,” Killian says, as quiet as Emma was loud. It seems to make the most sense. “Because...because you weren’t here and I wanted you to be here and I...wanted…”  
  
She cuts him off and really he’s not surprised that she kisses him first.

He nearly falls over.

He would break his other ankle if he got to keep kissing her.

Killian hears himself make some kind of strangled noise, a mix of want and desire and how _fucking long_ he’s spent waiting for this moment and it’s better than he imagined or dreamed and Emma’s fingers are in his hair and tracing over the back of his neck and he’s fairly certain she’s standing on her toes.

He tilts his head and tries to remember to breathe through his nose so he can keep kissing her because kissing her is like coming up for air and twenty-six prescriptions for everything that’s ever ailed him. Emma hums against him when he tightens his arm around her waist and there are, suddenly, tongues involved and hands trying to trace over as much of each other as possible and it’s enough to change the entire rotation of the Earth, he’s convinced.

Emma mutters something, but he’s far too busy trying to keep his brain from short-circuiting when her hips cant against his to understand words at the moment.

So, naturally, she says it again. Because she’s the most stubborn human being on the planet.

“What did you say?” Killian breathes, pulling back enough to see _all_ the green in her eyes and Emma’s teeth find her lip. He taps his thumb against her cheek and tilts his head, waiting. Again. “Emma?”

“Oh, that’s stupid,” she sighs, rolling her eyes for good measure and he tries to kiss her again. On instinct. Or something. Emma presses her fingers against his mouth and makes a face when he nips against her palm. “I love you,” she shouts and it’s as if the world rights itself. “Just...like for forever. It’s been such a ridiculously long time. I think Mary Margaret’s been mad it hasn’t happened before. Ruby thinks we’ve been secretly making out for months and Scarlet’s got some betting pool I’m not supposed to know about and….”  
  
He cuts her off that time, crashing against her and smiling when she gasps and they rock back and forth for a moment before they seem to find a rhythm that works and there’s another lesson in there somewhere.

“I love you,” Killian says and it’s easier than anything else he’s said all night. It’s the easiest sentence in the goddamn world. “And I wanted you there because I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember and I didn’t want you to worry, but if anyone was going to worry well...then I’m glad it’s you.”  
  
Emma laughs and it seems to work its way into every single one of his muscles and he’s exhausted and hungry, but she’s smiling at him and he’s rather interested in kissing some more.

“That’s the lamest thing you’ve ever said,” Emma mumbles, letting her forehead drop to his chest and he smiles into her hair.  
  
“Yeah, well, you’ve already made declarations, Swan. You’re stuck with me now.”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
He can feel her lips turn, even through his t-shirt, or maybe he’s just imagining that, but it doesn’t matter when the next words out of her mouth change everything. Again. “I was talking about here,” Emma whispers. “When I said home. I meant you.”

He’s going to make her four dozen chocolate chip cookies.

“Good,” Killian says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and tugging her against his side. “C’mon, love, the vanilla extract can wait.”  
  
They fall asleep together and it’s not perfect because his ankle has to stay elevated, but neither one of them wake up once and Scarlet cackles when he comes home the next day, shouting about bets and profit and finally.

“Finally,” Killian mutters, pressing a kiss to Emma’s temple.

And he was right. Mary Margaret adores Ariel as soon as they meet when Killian and Emma host Christmas in _their_ apartment a few months later. They make chocolate chip cookies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt from @katie-dub: I love your CS banter would either a prompt like "I'm your emergency contact and best friend and you were in a major accident and I'm trying to act like what happened is no big deal but you nearly died and how are you the one distracting me from it all?"


	2. To Grandmother's House We Go

When she was ten years old Emma spent Thanksgiving at a group home in North Carolina and it was warm.

It was humid.

It was exactly the opposite of anything late November should be. She’d never really learned about Thanksgiving – aside from tracing her hand when she was in second grade and learning about pilgrims and none of it ever really sat well with her, but nothing really ever sat well with her and the social worker would say it’s because she was misunderstood.

Or something.

Emma didn’t care about any of it. She wanted crisp air and leaves that changed color and a turkey she didn’t have to draw herself.

She wanted to eat the turkey.

It didn’t happen in North Carolina.

And really, she’s not sure why she remembers _that_ particular Thanksgiving so much more than the rest. None of them were particularly good, but none of them were like the North Carolina Thanksgiving and the memory seems to linger in the back corner of her brain, no matter what she does to try and forget it.

She woke up to snores in that room and shouting in the kitchen and the state gave them prepackaged meals, but it was too hot to turn the oven on.

The air felt heavy and meaningful in a way it never should for a ten-year-old kid on Thanksgiving and even now, years, and realms and a whole _lifetime_ later, Emma can still remember exactly how it felt to wake up in that house – a room with four other kids and mattresses pressed together like a jigsaw puzzle on the floor and a quiet hum because a house that crowded could never just be quiet and there was no turkey.

She traced her hand on the inside of a notebook and tucked herself into a corner with her chin resting on her knees and the hope for something...anything else.

She’s fairly certain she’s found it.

Now.

In bed.

With Killian’s arm heavy around her waist and what already sounds like a seasonally appropriate wind outside and Emma swears she can feel him smile against her hair.

“You’re awful at pretending you’re still asleep, love,” he mumbles and Emma grins into the pillow, twisting in some sort of misplaced attempt to try and preserve whatever warmth they’ve created under a small mountain of blankets.

It only half works – mostly just turns into Killian’s teeth against the curve of her neck and Emma’s breath hitches in the back of her throat and she rolls her shoulder in a vague attempt to try and regulate her breathing.

That _absolutely_ does not work.

“I wasn’t really pretending,” Emma says. She turns her head on the pillow, trying to flip onto her back and that doesn’t work either because Killian makes a noise when her hair smacks against his face and his feet are freezing when she brushes her own toes against him. “God, how are you cold? Why are you cold? That’s not normal.”  
  
“Swan, are you keeping track of my body temperature?”  
  
“You are always crazy warm.”  
  
“I”m not sure that even makes sense.”  
  
“You have better circulation than I do. Why isn’t it warm in here?”  
  
“It is, Swan, you’re just frightfully cold. I think you’re pilfering my body heat, actually.”  
  
“You absolutely do not know enough about modern science to make that kind of claim.”

Killian lowers his eyebrows, one side of his mouth quirking up and it sends a shock of something down Emma’s spine and, possibly, warms both of their slightly frozen feet. “That’s uncalled for,” he challenges, reaching forward to drag his fingers over the line of her spine and her whole body jerks forward out of instinct. He practically beams.

“Bastard,” she grumbles and he chuckles under his breath, low and just a bit dark and she’s definitely warm now.

Killian’s eyes flash towards her, far too much blue to possibly be acceptable that early in the morning and she was never much for a consistent sleep schedule, but now she can’t seem to keep her eyes closed after sunrise and she absolutely blames him.

“I have no idea what you’re suggesting, darling,” he mutters and there are kisses in between the words and possibly in between the letters and it makes it very difficult to pay attention to either one of those things. “And that hardly seems appropriate considering the day.”  
  
“And, pray tell, how do you know about today?”  
  
“Your mother told me.”

“Is that weird?”  
  
Killian’s eyebrows shift and Emma’s momentarily distracted by that too and that’s _insane_ , but she’s waking up with the sun now and she wants to keep her husband in bed for as long as possible. They’re not the ones cooking the...anything.

“Is what weird, Swan?” he asks. His hand hasn’t stopped moving, brushing across skin and the curve of her hip and towards the small swell of her stomach, just visible if you know what you’re looking for.

Killian absolutely knows what he’s looking for.

She’s lost track of the number of times she’s caught him staring, something distant in his gaze like he can’t quite believe it or understand it and it makes her heart sputter against her rib cage.

“Swan,” Killian says again when she doesn’t answer immediately and she wonders how long they’ve been laying there with his hand flat on her stomach.

They’re only a few months removed from leaving Henry in the Enchanted Forest with Regina and...the other Killian and the hope of maybe finding Cinderella. God, _Cinderella_. Another Cinderella. In another realm. It’s enough to make Emma’s head spin if she thinks about it for too long and she doesn’t want to do that because she’s only just stopped removing the contents of her stomach every time she stands up.

And she’s fine. Really she is. She knows Henry will be fine and Regina will look after him with her life and some version of Killian is watching her kid and that’s enough to settle her nerves and calm her thoughts, but, well, it’s Thanksgiving and she wants.

She wants way more than she did in North Carolina and, somehow, that seems even more selfish than it did when she was ten.

Killian taps his thumb, a slightly impatient rhythm and Emma laughs when she meets his gaze, wide-eyed and bordering closer to imploring than it should be on some kind of national holiday.

“Do they...do they have something Thanksgiving-esque in the Enchanted Forest?” she asks, the question tumbling out of her mouth without her explicit permission.

She’s been wondering for weeks, since they walked through the portal and the air got a bit crisper and the leaves _did_ change and Granny started pushing hot apple cider towards her in the morning instead of coffee, promising it didn’t have _as much caffeine_ in it.

And she’s swallowed back the question every single time it’s been on the tip of her tongue, certain whoever she asked would just look at her with that same sense of pity that one social worker in North Carolina did. She couldn't ask Granny, knowing the news of her questions would spread like wildfire down Main Street as soon as Leroy came in for his morning breakfast of several dozen pancakes and what, Emma was positive, was an entire slab of bacon. She couldn't ask her parents either, even _more_ certain that it would only lead to muttered apologies and ducked eyes and scuffed heels on the brand-new carpet in the farmhouse.

She wasn’t going to ask.

Really.

She wasn’t even sure she wanted to know.

That was a complete lie.

She wants to know – if only to find out what Henry might be doing on the same day in a different realm with a slightly different family. She hopes he’s happy. She hopes he’s safe.

She’s….crying.

“Oh, dammit,” Emma grumbles when Killian’s eyes widen again and his hand flies towards her cheek so quickly, she’s surprised it doesn’t just evolve into a cartoon blur for emphasis. “This is...There are hormones involved in this.”

Killian smiles at her, soft and understanding and that just makes her cry even more. It’s insane. “I know,” he says, brushing away tears and resting his thumb on the edge of her mouth. It brushes over her lip when her mouth opens. “I…” he continues, twisting his head slightly and squeezing one eye shut and Emma wonders if they have really ever get out of bed. That would require her to find her phone. “Well, I went to talk to your mother because I was hoping she might have some more...literature.”  
  
Emma’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead and possibly disappear into her hairline forever. “Literature?” she repeats, a hint of laughter in her voice that’s really more generic _swooning_ , but probably sounds like something a bit closer to hysterics. “What...why?”  
  
Killian eyes her meaningfully and she presses her lips together tightly, reaching forward to rest the hand that isn’t twisted up underneath her on his chest.

He’s some kind of human furnace so he rarely wears much more than shorts – he’s fascinated by the fabric gym shorts and it’s the single most adorable thing she’s ever seen in her entire goddamn life – and she feel the hair under her fingers, not quite rough or course, but not quite smooth either and she does her best to keep her eyes away from the scar across his stomach.  

“To be prepared, Swan,” Killian says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and, honestly, she’s not surprised. He’s got, at least, seventeen apps on his phone that she’s fairly certain Belle downloaded for him and he figured out the wifi as soon as they realized she was pregnant so he could read on the iPad in bed after she’d fallen asleep.

She’s not surprised he’s asked her mom for more information, she’s mostly surprised that there’s any more information to be found.

“I’m not sure anyone could possibly be more prepared than you,” Emma says, another piece of sentiment that seems to just rush out of her. She wonders if that’s another side effect of hormones or just being pregnant. There wasn’t really anyone to just shout feelings to in prison the first time around. Killian probably knows.

There’s probably been a study.

As it is, he seems far too stunned by whatever she’s just said to remember any kind of facts or figures. He’s actually blushing.

That might be more adorable than the whole gym shorts thing.

“What is going on right now?” Emma asks, scraping her nails across his chest lightly. He moves quickly, wrapping his fingers around his wrist and, she supposes, there’s something to be said for _prepared_. “Were you talking to my mom about babies and national holidays? And how could she possibly have anything that you don’t already know?”

“There’s always something, Swan,” Killian promises. He doesn’t let go of her wrist.

“That is an answer to the less exciting question.”  
  
His eyes dart back up towards hers and there’s almost a smile on his face, but it’s still a bit cautious and she’s going to use the hormone excuse for the rest of her goddamn life. “That’s true,” he admits. “You’re just rather terrible at lying, love.”  
  
Emma narrows her eyes. Killian tightens his hold on her wrist, thumb brushing over her pulse point and she’s sure, eventually, she’ll probably stop crying. “I don’t know what you mean,” she mumbles, but the words land mostly in his shoulder blade when Killian tugs her flush against his chest. He kisses her temple.

“Of course you don’t,” he says. “There’s not really a holiday equivalent in the Enchanted Forest. There’s a harvest fest in the fall, right when the leaves start to turn color, but weeks before they actually start to fall. Although I don’t know if that’s really the tradition anymore. I was young the last time I remember that happening. My mother was still alive.”

“It sounds kind of nice. A festival, I mean. I just didn’t know what might happen in the Enchanted Forest if…”

“And that’s exactly what I was talking to your mother about. Because you wouldn’t.”  
  
“You’re some kind of soothsayer, you know that, right?”  
  
He laughs against her hair, breath warm on the top of her head and Emma burrows further against him. “I’m going to take that as a compliment when it comes to you,” he says and she knows he’s smiling. “And you could have asked her. She would have understood.”  
  
Emma grumbles a string of curses under her breath and Killian laughs even louder, peppering her face with kisses until they’re a tangled mess of limbs of blankets and one of the decorative pillows that inexplicably came with the bed set when they ordered falls on the floor.

“See, but you going there kind of proves my point,” Emma says. “And this is...this is stupid because we’re fine. We’re all good and safe, finally, and there are no threats of imminent danger and the bean’s growing at some kind of alarming rate, so there’s no reason to want for anything. It goes against all the rules of Thanksgiving.”  
  
“Are there rules to a holiday that seems based on gorging yourself with overly rich food?”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
He chuckles and kisses on the edge of her mouth, hand doing something absolutely distracting and this conversation is confusing. It’s because no one will let her drink any caffeine. She can have some. She’s looked it up.

“I just…” Emma sighs, scrunching her nose and squeezing her eyes shut as tightly as she can. “I’m happy. Absurdly happy. And this is, I mean, I never really had this.”  
  
“Thanksgiving?”

She shrugs. “Thanksgiving, a family, a ridiculously good looking pirate who keeps researching baby facts until the entire town turns against him.”  
  
“You say that like it’s an insult, love. And I don’t think the town will turn against me. The town wants to wrap every building in silks and stage some sort of royal christening.”  
  
“Agh, don’t talk about that. One of the dwarves mentioned something about some piece of magic Mom has in a closet somewhere that could tell us if it was a boy or a girl before science could do the same exact thing and I just…”  
  
She trails off when she sees the look on Killian’s face – eerily similar to the way it looked when they realized every single one of the tests she’d bought all said the same thing. He looks a little stunned and slightly awed and they’re going to be late to her parents.

“Did you honestly not realize that?” Emma asks. Killian blinks, at least, forty-six times. “That’s...that’s pretty basic science.”  
  
He blinks again. And opens his mouth. Only to close it and open it four more times and Emma tries to stay patient while her mind drifts to thoughts of how much food her mom is going to make. She hopes it’s a ton of food. She hopes there’s green bean casserole. God, she wants green bean casserole.

“No, no, I knew about what the machines in the hospital do,” Killian says. “Locksley before he...well when Zelena was with child, he showed me the photos they had taken and how you could see the bean before it was born, but I didn’t realize your mother had magic that could beat the machines.”  
  
She doesn’t want to laugh. She wants to kiss him – forcibly for several minutes – and then she wants eat a questionable amount of green bean casserole. But her body’s stopped listening to anything she actually wants it to do weeks ago and so she laughs and her shoulders shake and she can just make out the flush in Killian’s cheeks.

“I can’t believe you just said the phrase beat the machines,” Emma mumbles, the muscles in her stomach starting to ache from overuse. “You sound like a bad sci-fi villain.”

“You’re making fun, Swan, but you’re also keeping some secrets. On this holiday, no less.”  
  
“I think you’re putting way too much stock in Thanksgiving.”  
  
“Aren’t you?” Killian challenges and, well, that’s just dumb. It’s dumb and unfair and almost so correct it’s painful. Emma rolls her eyes and makes a face and he kisses her.

That seems dumb too.

She doesn’t argue it.

He twists them until he’s hovering above her, hair a riotous mess from whatever she’d been doing with her fingers and her breath catches when he moves his hips. “Why didn’t you want to ask your mother about Thanksgiving, Swan? Or ask her about her magic?”  
  
“It’s not her magic,” Emma argues, eyelashes fluttering when he starts kissing against her collarbone. “It’s just a magic...thing. Maybe. I was only half listening to the dwarves and, God, I can’t talk about dwarves when you do that.”  
  
Killian smirks and Emma feels in it in every inch of her and they don’t really talk much more after that. She’s staring at the ceiling what feels like several decades later and Killian’s hand is back on her stomach, tracing absent-minded patterns while she tries to get her breathing back to a level deemed healthy in any of the studies he’s absolutely read.

“It’s alright to be happy, Emma,” he breathes, soft enough that she’s only half sure she’s heard him. She’s positive when she flips onto her side to find him nearly smiling at her. “He’s a smart lad, he’ll be fine.”

Emma exhales, closing her eyes lightly and Killian’s hand doesn’t stop moving. “I know,” she says. “And I know...it’s...there are people there for him and to watch out for him. But Thanksgiving is this, well, it’s this idea I always had when I was a kid. That it was supposed to be this great, big moment with your family and people you love and I’m just…”  
  
“Worried,” Killian finishes. “Aye, love, me too.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“About nearly everything.”  
  
“Is that why you went to talk to my mom?”  
  
He nods. “That was mostly because I was worried about you and you’re Gods awful at lying about how fine you are. You wanted to strangle that one Lost Boy when we brought him in the other day.”  
  
“Well he deserved it. Who throws empty bottles at buildings? Marco was practically scared about of his skin.”  
  
“I think you managed to scare him sufficiently, Swan,” Killian grins and she makes another face. “Henry will be fine and he’ll be back home. Sooner than you realize.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“Just trust me, love, please.”

She huffs out the air she didn’t realize she was holding and that’s probably not healthy, but if there’s green bean casserole later, it almost feels like a food-based wash.

There is, it appears, every version of casserole known to mankind and several different alien races when Emma and Killian finally make their way into the farmhouse and she’s hit with the nearly overpowering scent of Bell’s Seasoning. The house she lived in when she was in Pennsylvania made a ten-pound turkey with Bell’s seasoning.

She didn’t get any.

“Swan,” Killian says, nudging her elbow when she freezes in the doorway. “You’ve got to keep walking inside, love.”

Emma nods dumbly and it’s _dumb_ – she’s happy. She’s with her parents and her husband and there’s a questionable amount of food for four people.

“Oh,” she sighs. “We’re not the only one coming are we?”  
  
Killian makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and Emma’s too busy being tugged into a hug by her dad to stage any sort of response. “Happy Thanksgiving,” her dad says, cupping the back of her head and squeezing her waist lightly. “You guys eat yet?”  
  
“Dad,” Emma sighs, making a face at Neal when she realizes her brother is attached to her father’s side. “We know the rules. Did Mom just buy out the store? How did she even do all of this?” She’s hit with another wave of scent and her head darts towards the massive kitchen on the other side of the floor when she hears the oven door slam shut. “Did she make apple pie? Isn’t that against form?”

Her father grins, hitching up Neal on his side and shrugging like he’s keeping the world’s biggest secret. Killian suddenly seems to find his shoes very interesting. “What do you two know that I don’t?” Emma asks, but there’s more deflection and there’s another blur of a human rushing towards her.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” her mother shouts, pulling Emma away from her father and squeezing her tight enough that even Killian makes a noise that’s almost a reprimand. “Right, right, right,” Mary Margaret continues, leaping back and waving her hands through the air. There’s flour streaked on her face and the front of her dress and Neal makes a noise. “You guys were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”  
  
She glares at Killian who now looks like he’s trying to melt into the ground. “Apologies your highness,” he mutters and Emma wonders if they’ve walked through a portal without realizing it and are, suddenly, in a different universe.

That would almost make more sense.

“I didn’t realize there was some kind of strict schedule we were supposed to be sticking to,” Emma says. “It seemed like a suggestion a few days ago.”  
  
“That’s because there wasn’t a plan a few days ago,” David mutters, drawing the ire of Mary Margaret as well. He holds his free hand up in surrender. “I’m just passing along facts.”

“It’s a good idea,” Mary Margaret says, like everyone in the foyer knows what they’re talking about. “It’s going to work.”  
  
“I’m not questioning that.”  
  
“We’ve just got a limited timeframe for it to work so...we should sit down.”

She’s gone in another flash, something about _take your shoes off_ lingering in the air as she practically sprints up the stairs and none of them actually move.

Emma’s not sure who to look at – or glare at.

“Killian,” she says and she momentarily wonders if that’s what he looked like in uniform because he practically snaps to attention. It helps her anger ebb just a bit. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a surprise, Swan,” Killian mutters, words barely audible over Mary Margaret’s return to the ground floor and her ensuing groan when she realizes none of them have actually moved. “And you really should sit down, love.”  
  
“You know this can’t be good for my blood pressure. Or whatever.”  
  
“A fact I’m almost painfully aware of. I promise it will make sense, Swan. Your mother’s right, we probably only have a few minutes.”  
  
Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically, clutching something in her hand and directing them towards the living room. “Sit, sit, sit,” she says, rushing over the words as she more or less pushes Emma into the couch cushions. Killian bristles, but she just waves him off and David might never stop laughing. “Here,” Mary Margaret says, thrusting her arm towards Emma and she is holding something. “I’ve been keeping this...forever.”  
  
Emma eyes her mother’s hand warily, defenses rising out instinct until David throws his head back and promises _it’s not going to bite you, Emma_. She reaches forward slowly, prying the _whatever_ from in between Mary Margaret’s fingers.

It’s a shard of mirror.

“What…” Emma starts, glancing around the room. “What is this?”  
  
“It’s a mirror,” Mary Margaret says. “A piece of mirror from the one Regina enchanted when we were in Neverland. Do you remember?”

Emma nods slowly, the memory returning in sharp focus until she feels like she’s living it. Killian’s arm moves around her shoulder and it’s enough to pull her back to the present and a million more questions on the tip of her tongue. “But,” Emma argues. “Someone stepped on it. To make sure the Lost Boys couldn’t find it.”  
  
“True, but I, well, magic always leaves a trace and even if they couldn’t track us by using the mirror magic, they might have been able to find us some other way and so I circled back and grabbed it and….”  
  
“Kept it,” Emma finishes. Mary Margaret shrugs.

“Your mother is a bit of a pack rat,” David adds, grinning when he’s on the receiving end of another glare. “This, however, is a pretty good byproduct of that.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“You can use it, Swan,” Killian explains softly, tugging the mirror out of her hand and twisting it so the light reflects off the glass. “We think there still might be a bit of Regina’s magic connected to it and if you add to that you might be able to find both of them. Even across realms.”  
  
“For Thanksgiving,” Mary Margaret adds and it’s unnecessary and overwhelming and Emma’s crying again. “Is that...is that ok? It’s just, well, Killian said you were worried and we thought this might help and…”  
  
Emma moves before she can think, nearly knocking both her and her mother back onto the floor and Mary Margaret lets out a soft _oof_ when she squeezes as tightly as she can. Mary Margaret sniffles. David’s phone shutter snaps.

They stand like that for far too long and when Emma turns around, Killian’s still staring at her with something that looks a hell of a lot like the visual embodiment of everything she wanted when she was ten. “It was your idea?” she asks softly and he nods. Emma sighs or exhales or just melts into some kind of emotional puddle on her parents floor. “Thank you.”  
  
“Happy Thanksgiving, Swan,” he says, ignoring David’s outcry when he stands up and kisses her. Soundly. In her parent’s living room.

It takes a few tries and she shatters a few light bulbs and sheds a few more tears, but she finally sees something on the piece of glass in her hands and Henry, somehow, looks older than he did just a few months ago.

“Mom?” he shouts, jumping towards the mirror in his end when Emma yells his name and she’s basically sobbing now. “How…” Henry stutters, all wide eyes and heaving shoulders and Emma can dimly hear Regina in the background shouting about magic. “Mom, did you do this?”  
  
“I have no idea how,” Emma admits, trying without much luck to wipe away the tears before they fall down her cheeks. Henry lets out a shaky laugh and she doesn’t know what to else to say. “Are you...are you ok? Is everything ok?”  
  
He nods and the smile seems to spread across his face in slow motion. “Great,” he says. “I’m great. Are you ok? Is something wrong with you or…”  
  
“No, no, no, we’re fine. Everything’s fine. It’s just, well, your time is different than ours. Oh, I didn’t even think of that. It’s, um, it’s Thanksgiving.”  
  
Henry’s eyes light up and even Regina stops moving in the background and Emma swears she can feel the force of his smile from whatever version of the Enchanted Forest they’re in. “Is there turkey?” he asks.

Emma’s breath catches and Mary Margaret tries to hide her tears, but it doesn’t work at all and even David’s eyes look a little glossy. Killian kisses the side of Emma’s head. “There’s so much food, kid,” she says. “Grandma and Grandpa went nuts with the traditions and the casseroles and I think Grandma bought stock in Bell seasoning or something. The whole farmhouse smells like it.”  
  
“It’s nice,” Mary Margaret sighs and Henry laughs again. “And I made Regina’s apple pie recipe too. It was delicious.”  
  
“Is that weird?” Henry asks, quirking an eyebrow in a way that is almost identical to Killian. “That seems kind of weird that you did that.”  
  
“It’s definitely a little weird,” David mutters and Henry’s sat down now, arm stretched out so they can see the entire encampment.

There’s a table and what looks like several dozen maps and piles of blankets and makeshift lean-tos. Emma’s eyes try to trace all of it, commit it all to memory so she can remember Henry is fine and he’s safe and she knows Killian’s doing the same, the quiet rhythm of his breathing falling into time with hers when he shifts against her side. Or at least until someone else moves in the background and Henry’s head snaps up, the smile on his face shifting slightly.  
  
“Oh,” Killian laughs. “He found her.”  
  
Henry shoots them a warning glance, but Killian laughs even louder and there’s suddenly a woman standing next to Henry, long, dark hair down her back and concern in her eyes and a sword strapped to her hip. She mutters a question and Henry shakes his head, nodding towards the scene on his side of the mirror.  
  
“No, it’s fine,” Henry promises. “This is my family.” The woman’s eyebrows pinch and, well, it is kind of confusing. Henry doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s my mom Emma and my step-dad and my grandparents, Snow White and Prince Charming. Guys, uh, this is my...this is Ella.”  
  
Emma’s not sure how there is still enough moisture in her eyes to cry, but the body is a miracle, or so that one study Killian found said, and she can’t seem to stop tearing up. Henry beams at them and the woman tries to smile. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says, honesty in every one of the words.

“You too,” Emma says and she means it and they use the word _family_ five more times.

She’s not sure how any of it works, but Regina seems impressed by the magic and it keeps working and she keeps talking to Henry so she’s not going to question it. She is, however, a bit surprised by Henry’s parting question.

“So do you know if I’m going to have a brother or a sister, yet?” he asks and Emma nearly drops the mirror. “What? Is that wrong to ask? There’s science isn’t there?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Not for a couple of weeks,” she says, but an idea seems to strike her suddenly and this conversation is incredibly cyclical. She glances at Killian and he nods before she even gets the question out. “Soothsayer.”  
  
“Open book,” he corrects softly, turning towards Mary Margaret who’s already smiling. “Your highness,” he continues. “You wouldn’t have to have any more magic tucked away upstairs would you?”  
  
Mary Margaret nearly starts jumping up and down. “I thought you’d never ask.”

It’s a girl.

They’re having a girl and several different members of this vaguely absurd ridiculous family shed tears as soon as the amulet or _whatever_ it is turns a specific way and it’s a girl. Emma closes her eyes lightly, dimly aware of Killian’s stunned _a lass_ in her ear and Henry’s excited laughter in a different realm could probably fuel every portal and magic bean for the rest of the world.

“I’ll be home soon, Mom,” Henry says and she tries to believe that soon is tomorrow and every holiday from here on out. “I...I miss you.”  
  
She smiles. “I miss you too, kid. But this is...you’re doing something good and we still got Thanksgiving with all the trimmings, right?”  
  
“I mean you’re the one who got to eat the casseroles and the pies, but Mom said she might magic something for me later.”  
  
“Apple?”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“Obviously.” Someone calls for Henry and he looks so much older when he rolls his shoulders and stands up a little straighter and Emma’s heart grows and shrinks and beats too fast, all at the same time. “I love you,” she says and he grins in response.

“I love you too, Mom. Tell Granny to let you drink some hot chocolate every once in awhile.”  
  
She laughs and the magic seems to shimmer on the glass in her hand until it’s just a normal mirror and Henry’s gone. Again. “Are you alright, love?” Killian asks softly, a hint of caution in his voice like he’s worried he’s done the wrong thing by giving her Thanksgiving.

“Perfect,” Emma answers. “Thank you. For...all of this and worrying and downloading all those apps even the ones you have to pay for.”  
  
“That was only one.”

I’m happy. Absurdly happy. And we’re going to be fine. We’re...a girl. We’re having a girl.”  
  
She’s glad she’s sitting down when he smiles at her. “Yeah, we are,” Killian says and it sounds like a promise when the wind whips against the windows of the farmhouse and there aren’t any leaves on the trees outside. “Happy Thanksgiving, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: How about a thanksgiving fic with a bit of angst. Like Emma recalls this time of year being the worse and now she's with her family, her husband and she's got her two kidsthere, and Henry ofcourse with his family or maybe not. Just have Henry, Regina, and Rumplestill in HH's. Emma will be in SB with Killian, her 2 children with Killian(one is a toddler, the oher is a baby boy) and her parents all spending a peaceful thanksgiving together. Sound good?
> 
> This is not entirely what happened Anon, but here we are. The angst was, at least, pretty real.


	3. Whistled for Icing

It takes her by surprise.

She’s standing in the kitchen, a towel draped over her shoulder and a sink full of dishes in front of her and it’s domestic and quiet and so, naturally, it ends.

There’s a screech and a shout and a small body slamming into the back of her legs until Emma’s knees buckle and she hisses when one of them slams into the cabinet in front of her. There is a ridiculous amount of cabinet space in their kitchen.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom,” the voice calls and it’s muffled when pushed against her jeans and still-bent knees and the front of Emma’s shirt is soaked when she drops the pot she was washing.

The shouting continues for a solid twenty seconds and that’s not the part that surprises her. That is, almost, par for whatever course they’re charting for the rest of their lives.

Storybrooke is, well, it’s Storybrooke and they’ve never actually sustained an attack by tiny dragons, but it’s still sometimes hectic and just a bit magical and there was that one time they battled some sort of smoke monster a few months ago and even after all of that it always seems to be decidedly loud.

Or that might just be their house – with their ridiculous amount of cabinet space.

Emma shakes her shirt, as if that will make a difference to the amount of soapy water clinging to the cotton, and wipes her hands on the front of her jeans, spinning in one move that she makes a mental note to tell Killian about later. It’s that impressive.

“What, what, what, what?” she asks, crouching down to the level of the small human being still reciting some kind of speech.

Nadia widens her eyes and shakes her hair away from her forehead and it’s somewhere in the realm of the single most adorable thing Emma’s ever seen and vaguely frustrating because she’s also positive her daughter is half a second away from running her fingers through her hair and trying to smirk at her.

It feels like cheating.

She’ll probably tell Killian that as well.

Nadia Jones is a raven-haired, green-eyed, five-year-old terror who could probably get the entire population of Storybrooke, Maine to do her bidding at a moment’s notice. She’s loud and has a tendency to sing along to any song that comes on in the car or on TV or during any sort of entertainment event, whether she knows the words or not, and is currently in the middle of what appears to be a lifelong chocolate phase.

Her knees are almost always cut up and she has a habit of tracking mud onto the rug just inside front door and she’s only recently agreed to leave the house without bringing along Jet, the stuffed eel she’s had since she was, approximately, four days old.

Jet, the stuffed eel, was a gift from Ariel when Nadia was born, sent via another portal with an entire royal consort and a letter that had an actual wax seal on it and the gesture still leaves Killian hysterical and Emma slightly confused because, well, she’s seen _The Little Mermaid_. But, then again, her mom is Snow White and she’s only seen her sing to birds a handful of times, so maybe Disney didn’t get it all right.

Nadia is...well, perfect isn’t the right word because it isn’t always perfect. There are meltdowns over a lack of chocolate in the house and when Jet’s stitching came undone and Emma tried to thread a needle four times before she was the one melting down and Killian had to call her mom to fix it.

She did.

Because the entire population of Storybrooke would do absolutely anything for Nadia Jones.

“Can we go?” Nadia shouts and Emma blinks out of instinct, nearly falling back on her heels and into the cabinets under the sink. “Daddy said we could go!”

Emma twists her eyebrows, glancing towards a door she knows won’t open any time soon because it’s Thanksgiving weekend and Storybrooke might be a sleepy little New England town in the way all the postcards promise, but there are still some Lost Boys and, maybe, a few Lost Adults who enjoy spending the night before major holidays with full glasses at the Rabbit Hole.

And she’s got a turkey to dissect or whatever it is the Barefoot Contessa will tell her you’re supposed to do to a turkey the night before Thanksgiving and Killian is on patrol and they’ve got a schedule to follow.

Regina wrote it down.

God help them all if they don’t adhere to it.

“Go where?” Emma asks, her calves aching from crouching for so long and her shirt has reached that point of damp where it’s uncomfortable. Nadia does not look impressed with the question. She takes a deep breath before she answers.

“To the rink,” she shouts and Emma hopes her eardrums recover from the sudden onslaught of sound and excitement. “Daddy said there weren't any kids there now and he and Grandpa were going to make sure nobody showed up and…” She has to pause to take another deep breath and Emma does her best not to be hopelessly charmed by her own kid. It doesn’t work. “And,” Nadia continues, huffing out the air she was absolutely holding. “He said that we could go tomorrow after food and now that Henry and Ella are here they could come too and I want to ask Lucy too. And maybe Gina could help make skates and…”  
  
Emma pulls one hand away from Nadia’s shoulder to wave it through the air and it’s a ridiculous response because it absolutely does not stop her daughter from talking – going on about plans and hats and skates and….”Do you know how to skate, Mom? Could you make the skates?! I bet you could make the skates!”

It isn’t often that Emma is _completely_ confused, but this seems like one of those moments and it’s kind of humbling in a way she hopes not to repeat any time soon.

At least not with a shirt that is slowly dripping water on her kitchen floor.

“Back up two-hundred steps, Nadia,” Emma says softly and her kid huffs again, not appreciating being cut off mid-plan and discussions about magic. “When did you talk to daddy?”  
  
“Now!”  
  
“Right now? You’re talking to me right now, kid. Did Dad call?”  
  
Nadia nods enthusiastically, hair flying every direction and managing to hit Emma in the face, at least, six times. “Kid,” Emma sighs, doing her best to keep her balance. It’s not going well. She’s going to slip on the puddle underneath her at some point, she’s positive. “Why didn’t you bring me the phone when Dad called? And what did he say?”  
  
The nod turns into a shrug and Emma bits her lip, not sure if she’s trying to fight off pre-Thanksgiving dinner frustration and the certainty that they are _absolutely_ not following the schedule or the absolutely endearing smile on her five-year-old’s face.

It’s probably both.

It’s definitely both.

“To talk about the rink,” Nadia shouts, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. Emma sighs. “And…other stuff.”  
  
“Other stuff,” Emma repeats. She sighs again, but she’s definitely leaning more towards _endeared_ than _frustrated_ and Nadia knows it. She’s a mini-pirate. Or however that metaphor should work. “What kind of other stuff?”  
  
She doesn’t get an answer – the front door swinging open instead and it takes half a second and one not-quite-yell of _Swan_ from the foyer for Nadia to find something far more interesting than her mother and this story. Emma can feel the smile on her face, even when she groans as she stands up and she’s clearly not in shape for whatever _rink plan_ they were almost discussing.

The floorboards creak when Killian walks back towards the kitchen, unable to actually toe out of his boots when his hands are otherwise occupied and there’s a small child hanging off his side.

Nadia’s feet are dangling in the air, Killian’s arm more or less pinching her to his hip and Emma’s smile turns into a grin and then promptly lands in the pit of her stomach, like it’s trying to warm her from the inside out, which doesn’t make any sense at all since she hasn’t been outside in hours.

She’s barely made any headway on the turkey.

The Barefoot Contessa would be disappointed.

Maybe she should call her mom. Or just use magic. Or both. Both of those things feel a lot like cheating.

“I’m going to remember this moment every time you shout about taking our shoes off before we ruin the hardwood,” Emma grins, taking a step towards Killian and letting her hand fall on Nadia’s back until they’re both more or less supporting her weight.

It must be snowing out because there are little flakes in his hair, quickly melting in the warmth of their home and there’s a metaphor there that Emma isn’t all that interested in considering when she reaches up to brush her fingers across his cheek and Killian’s lips quirk as soon as she touches him.

He kisses her. And it’s not easy – there’s a kid in the way and what feels like half a dozen paper bags hitting up her hip. They make it work. And Nadia is not impressed.

At all.

“This is a one-time thing, Swan,” Killian mutters, mostly against her mouth and she swats at his side. She hits one of those bags and Nadia laughs in her ear and Killian sneaks another kiss. “And,” he adds, nipping at her lip when she makes a face. “I’m suffering an attack from a very dangerous kraken. It seemed wrong to resist her demands.”  
  
“A kraken, huh?” Emma laughs, reaching up to tug lightly on the end of Nadia’s hair. It’s starting to curl, just slightly and Emma constantly finds herself wondering how genetics work because her hair has always been pin straight and Killian’s isn’t exactly wavy and she’s got her suspicions, but they all seem to fall in decidedly _sentimental_ particularly the day before Thanksgiving. “Is that what you are, babe?”

“Absolutely,” Killian answers, smile on his face and bags still in his hand and he hitches his arm until Nadia’s sitting on his brace. “A terror of land and sea.”  
  
“Can a Kraken attack on land? I don’t think that’s how Krakens operate.”  
  
“I’m not a Kraken,” Nadia yells, wrapping her arms tightly around Killian’s neck and he flashes a smile at Emma over their daughter’s shoulder. “Daddy, that’s not true!”

“No, no, of course not,” he mumbles into her hair, somehow managing to bend down to let go of the bags without dropping Nadia or moving an inch away from Emma. She resists the urge to make some kind of _sea legs_ joke. “You’re far too shifty to be a Kraken. They’re not sneaking up on anyone. You’re an eel, aren’t you darling? Of the electric variety.”  
  
Nadia lets out a laugh that seems to sink into every inch of the house and it’s warm and honest and Killian beams at Emma like he can’t come up with anything better than calling their five-year-old daughter an electric eel.

She can’t either, really.

Nadia wriggles and nearly ends up on the ground with the puddle and the groceries, but Emma and Killian both move at the same time – it ends with Nadia’s knee in Killian’s stomach and her foot in Emma’s hip bone. Par for the course.

“Can we go now, Daddy?” Nadia ask and Killian hums in confusion. “We have to go! We have to get Henry and tell Lucy. Lucy will want to go too, I know it.”  
  
Killian lowers his eyebrows, glancing towards Emma when he still has no idea where they’re supposed to be going. She shrugs. “You’re the one who called her,” Emma says. “All I heard was there was a rink.”

“Oh,” Killian mutters, mouth forming a perfect circle when understanding hits him like he’s been shocked by an actual electric eel. “Right, that.”  
  
“That? What happened on patrol?”  
  
“Nothing really. We just, well, your father found something.”  
  
“Sounds menacing.”  
  
“It’s not, Swan, I promise,” he says quickly and if he notices the way her fingers move as soon as the magic shoots down her arm, he doesn’t actually say anything. “I didn’t even really know what it was until your father called it that. It just looked like a frozen pond.”  
  
“Are there ponds in Storybrooke that I don’t know about?”

Killian shakes his head and Emma’s more confused than ever. Her shirt has started sticking to her stomach. “Not any that weren’t created by magic.”  
  
Emma’s not sure who yells louder in response – her or Nadia. It might be her. “What?” Emma gapes and Killian eyes her meaningfully. She shakes her head, blinking blearily and jumping when a timer she forgot she set goes off. “God damn,” she mumbles, drawing a laugh out of Killian and something that more resembles a cackle out of Nadia. “I swear I’m going to murder this turkey.”  
  
“I think it’s already dead, love,” Killian mutters, hitching Nadia further up his side and grunting when he takes another knee to the spleen. “You’ve go to watch your knee, darling.”  
  
Nadia nods seriously, but Emma’s fairly certain the words haven’t sunk in at all. “It’s a magic rink, Mommy,” she says, rushing over the words the same way Henry would when he was a kid and particularly excited about something especially fantastic. “Aunt Elsa did it!”  
  
“Did she?” Emma asks. She’s not looking at Nadia.

Killian shrugs in response. “Do you know anyone else with ice-controlling magic?”  

“I mean...that’s fair. But Elsa and Anna haven’t been here in years, how did we not find this before? And how did we find it tonight?”  
  
“Like I said, Swan, your father found it,” Killian explains. “It was, relatively, quiet for the night before the holiday, just that one call at The Rabbit Hole, but that was more the dwarves living up to their names while fueled on spirits than anything else. The prince and I were ready to turn in when we got another phone call.”  
  
“From?”  
  
“Ella.”  
  
“You’re a terrible storyteller, you know,” Emma groans and Killian does something absurd with his eyebrows. “Ella just found an ice rink in the middle of Storybrooke? Where did it show up? Via portal on Main Street?”  
  
Killian’s eyebrows don’t move. “I’m a fantastic storyteller,” he argues. “You get mutinied upon if you’re not able to entertain your crew, love.”  
  
“You’re not helping your cause right now.”  
  
Nadia giggles, burrowing her head against Killian’s shoulder and Emma forgets about her still soap-drenched shirt when she crosses her arms tightly over her chest. She clicks her tongue in frustration and lets her shoulders drop. “It’s all about pace, Swan,” Killian promises. “And there were no portals and nothing on Main Street. That’s why I called. Or part of the reason I called. I had questions about pumpkin pie demands from her royal highness.”  
  
“Which one?” Emma grumbles. Killian kisses her cheek. It feels a little patronizing, but they’re probably doing permanent damage to the kitchen tile and she forgot all about pumpkin pie. “Ok, ok,” she continues. “So Ella was...somewhere not on Main Street and she found a magic pond that my dad called a rink and you figured all of this out how?”  
  
“You’re jumping ahead, Swan. I have no idea what Ella was doing in the area, we didn’t get that far in the conversation, but she called your father to tell him that there was something going on in the woods by the edge of town.”  
  
Emma barely holds in her sigh and things have been going so _well_ – that shadow monster notwithstanding. She doesn’t want to deal with this. She’s got pie to forget about.

“Stay with me, love,” Killian says, crouching down to try and start unpacking the groceries and there are probably things in there that need to be in the refrigerator. She’s going to magic this pie into existence. “Ella didn’t see the pond, just said she and Henry were out by the edge of town when it, suddenly, started to get much colder and there was, what looked like, some kind of blizzard a few feet into the treeline. So your father and I went to investigate.”  
  
She tries not to get mad.

She really does.

But experience and the _past_ and, well, their lives have more less hard wired her to be worried about potential attacks and hearing that her husband and father went into some kind of _magic blizzard_ without letting her know doesn’t do much to keep her blood pressure steady.

“And no one thought to let me know?” Emma hisses, grabbing a container of heavy cream out of one of the bags. She hopes there aren’t eggs in there. She’s going to smash them.

“You don’t answer your phone, Swan,” Killian reasons. Ah, well, point to him. She has no idea where her phone even is. Probably wherever Nadia dropped it. “Ever. I called. Your father called. Regina called. Five times.”  
  
“Oh my God. Nadia,” she says and Killian gets another foot in his thigh. “Did you hear my phone ring before?”  
  
Nadia nods and shrugs at the same time – a move she’s probably perfected by spending so much time with Henry and Lucy. “A couple of times, but you told me not to answer unless I see that it’s Daddy.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes. “That’s right,” she admits. “So on this quest to the great, magical pond what exactly led you to believe that it was either magical or Elsa’s work?”  
  
“I’m rather predisposed to trust Regina’s promises of _this is magic_ as soon as we took a step towards the trees. And, again, Elsa’s developed rather a reputation for working with ice and snow, don’t you think? Also…”  
  
“There’s more?”  
  
“Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not, Swan?” Emma sticks her tongue out. Nadia will probably do the exact same thing for the rest of the night. “We got to the line and it’s absolutely freezing out there, but it’s also a bit memorable, location-wise.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“Regina claims it’s a byproduct of very extensive magic, as if it’s leaving a shadow or a footprint of what was once right there. She said it was clinging to the ground, trying to stay in this world and keep a hold on what it once was.”  
  
It hits her suddenly and she nearly trips over the puddle she forgot about on the floor, feet slipping across linoleum until Killian reaches out, gripping her t-shirt and tugging her flush against his side. “We’ll have to keep you off the ice, love,” he grins, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat at the same time she moves against him, like she’s trying to ensure a distinct lack of space.

“So what you’re telling me,” Emma starts slowly, trying to process all of this at the same time she’s trying to remember all the things she has to cook. “Is that the giant ice wall that’s been melted for years, actual years, is still clinging to the world to, what, try and ice things?”  
“I think that’s the general idea, yes,” Killian nods.

It doesn’t make sense.  
  
It makes no sense.

It makes negatives amount of sense, but then again, Emma’s been tasked with cooking an entire turkey and pumpkin pie, so can almost rationalize the ice magic having some kind of mind of it’s own.

“But….” Emma continues, jumping onto the edge of the counter and grinning when Killian makes some kind of noise in the back of his throat. “What’s it been waiting for? I mean if the ice magic is just there, barely existing, why is it suddenly working? And should we be concerned about some kind of ice attack?”  
  
Killian starts shaking his head before Emma’s even finished. Nadia’s talking about skates again. “Regina doesn’t think so,” he says. “She said that it didn’t feel angry. Just as if it were waiting for something.”  
  
“The ice didn’t feel angry? Waiting for what, exactly?”  
  
“Her words, not mine, love. And we have dealt with angry ice before.”  
  
Emma scowls, but he’s got a point. “Yeah, that’s true,” she mumbles, moving her legs so he can stand between them, resting a hand on her knee. “Alright, but even if we’re not going to all be attacked by ice, angry otherwise, in the next couple of days, are we sure that actually going to the ice is a good idea? We won’t antagonize it or something?”  
  
“I don’t think we can antagonize the ice, Swan.”  
  
“You say that like you didn’t just tell me the ice had feelings and was reforming of its own free will.”  
  
“It was reforming because of the magic. It’s just doing what it’s supposed to.”  
  
“This is weird,” Emma announces, dimly aware that Nadia’s moved back into the living room, no longer entertained by banter or her parents discussion of impending doom. Maybe. That’s not on the schedule. “Do you not think this is weird?”  
  
“I’m not disagreeing with you, Swan,” Killian says. “But Regina seems to think it’s perfectly safe and your father said there’s some kind of tradition in this realm with holidays and something he called skates. I’ll admit that part does sound a little strange.”  
  
“That’s the only normal part of this. Ice skating is...well, it’s pretty storybook, honestly, but I remember going with Henry in New York. Or fake remember. But it’s not like there’s a ton of places to go ice skating in Storybrooke.”

“Henry already knows about it,” Killian mutters, voice dropping like he’s sharing some kind of secret and Emma’s whole body sags. If Henry knows then Lucy knows and _of course_ Killian had to tell Nadia. “He was with Ella.”  
  
Emma growls, punching lightly against Killian’s chest. He wraps his fingers around her wrist and tugs her hand up, brushing his lips across her knuckles and she tries not to be absolutely charmed by it.

It doesn’t work.

“You’re burying your lede,” Emma accuses and she absolutely said it because he has no idea what he means. “I bet I could help Regina magic blades onto skates. And I’d pay to see you out on the ice tomorrow night.”  
  
Killian flashes her a grin – the one he _knows_ will work and it does and another timer goes off. “What do you have to do to make this pie, Swan?”

The kitchen looks like some kind of battle ground by the end of it all – or, as Nadia points out far after she should have been in bed, like a Kraken attack and Emma laughs until her stomach aches and Killian peppers her face with kisses and it’s some kind of absurd, perfect thing – but they make the pie and the turkey doesn’t explode or anything and she waves her hand and cleans it all up, approximately, five minutes before the rest of their family is slated to get there.

And there’s more food than any of them could ever hope to eat – her mom makes some kind of treacle thing that sounds disgusting, but might actually be the greatest thing Emma’s ever tasted and even Killian admits to liking it, which is some kind of Thanksgiving dessert miracle – and Henry spends the afternoon trying to explain football to anyone who will listen and no one from the Enchanted Forest can understand why anyone would watch a dog show.

Emma can’t really either, but that’s beside the point.

It’s an easy kind of day, where the time seems to slow down and the sun seems to linger just a bit longer than it’s supposed to and Emma’s not surprised when both Lucy and Nadia start demanding to go to the magic rink.

They corral their small army of fairy tale characters, all of them padded with a questionable amount of winter clothing, but Regina promises _they’ll need it_ and Emma lets out some kind of ridiculous noise when it all kind of...hits her.

“You alright, love?” Killian asks, slinging an arm over her shoulder and he looks absurd in a winter hat. He’s holding a thermos of, what she hopes is, hot chocolate.

“Fine,” she promises. “Better than, even.”  
  
He presses a kiss to her temple, or at least tries to. There's a winter hat in the way. “C’mon, I think the lad has a plan for all of us.”

The plan, it turns out, is some kind of pickup hockey game – complete with sticks and pads and skates that all magically fit because that is, apparently, something Regina is capable of doing.

It’s freezing cold in this little corner of the forest, but it’s also kind of beautiful in that postcard way she was thinking about before, with snow lightly falling and dark green branches and just enough starlight that they can see when they make their way onto a pond made of actual magic.

Regina waves her hand again and all that practice with fireballs seems to have paid off because she does something and, suddenly, there are little pinpricks of heat hanging in the air. Emma flips her wrist and the few tree stumps just out of sight shift and rearrange themselves and she can’t help the little smile on her face when she realizes she’s just built makeshift bleachers.

“Impressive,” Regina mutters and Emma shrugs like she isn’t doing mental jumping jacks. Killian beams at her. “Do you have any idea how this sport works?”  
  
Emma shakes her head, lips tilting down when she hears something that sounds like an actual song, but just turns out to be her mother’s laughter when her father tugs her across the ice.

Regina lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a scoff and a groan and makes sure to roll her eyes for good measure. “God, No wonder the magic evolved like that,” she mutters and Emma’s head snaps so quickly she’s certain she’s dislocated something.

“What?”  
  
“Hook didn’t explain it?”  
  
She’s positive her head moves again because her hair shifts against her neck, but the words seem to get caught in her throat and the last thing she expects is for Regina to smile. “It’s very old magic,” she says and this whole conversation is a lot weirder when the actual reformed Evil Queen is leaning against a goddamn hockey stick. “But it’s almost simple if you think about it.”  
  
“You’re as bad at telling stories as Killian.”  
  
“Hey,” Killian shouts and Emma barely has a moment to wonder how he could hear her before her breath hitches and her mouth falls open and she thinks she notices Regina smiling again.

He’s already on the ice and he looks even more ridiculous with skates on his feet, but he’s holding onto Nadia’s hands and moving _backwards_ and she’s got knee pads on and a helmet on over a hat with a bright blue pom pom on it.

“Why are you so good at this?” Emma asks, voice cracking and Regina chuckles next to her. “How is that even possible?”  
  
She tries not to make another sea legs joke.

“You know water does freeze, love,” Killian grins, pulling Nadia forward until her feet move out from under her and she’s more parallel to the ice than the perpendicular she probably should be. “I’m perfectly capable of moving across ice.”  
  
“You’ve got blades on your feet!”  
  
“It’s the same principle, Swan. You’ve just got to find a rhythm.”

He flashes her a smile that shoots down her spine and into her freezing cold feet and Regina makes a noise that sounds suspiciously similar to the one she just made in response to Emma’s parents.

She decides to ignore that.  
  
“You could come out here, Swan,” Killian continues. “I promise, I know what I’m doing. A rather worthy partner, don’t you think?”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, but mostly so she won’t do something that will just serve to embarrass every single member of her family. Killian smirks at her.

“We’ve got to go faster, Daddy,” Nadia commands and if she’s got all of Storybrooke wrapped around her finger, then she’s got Killian Jones, Captain Hook, _scourge of the seas_ , wrapped around every single one of her limbs. “Please, please, please!”  
  
Henry moves around them, twisting with a stick in his hand and his own daughter half a step behind and Emma’s not sure when she just started living some kind of _Saturday Evening Post_ cover, but she’s not going to complain.

“You’ve got to to be able to go faster than that,” Henry grins, picking up speed as he goes and Killian seems to take that as some sort of personal challenge. “Here,” he adds, reaching out to give Nadia his stick. It towers over her. “Make some moves on your dad, kid.”  
  
Nadia lights up like some kind of still-too-early-to-put-up-a-tree-tree and Killian rolls his eyes. There’s more laughter – and possibly birds descending from trees, but Emma refuses to think about that for too long when Henry comes to an abrupt stop just on the edge of the pond in front of her. He’s breathing a bit harder than normal and Nadia is already challenging everyone to a race and, naturally, they’re all agreeing.

“You got a sec, Mom?” he asks and Emma nods, lower lip moving and eyebrows shifting slightly.

She nods towards her handmade bleachers and hot chocolate. “I’ve got several,” she promises. “When’d you become such a hockey fan?”  
  
“The latest curse. I remembered playing in a pick-up league and I guess it all just stuck.”  
  
Emma’s eyes fall to her skates and she can hear herself sigh – even after she tries to swallow back the noise. That’s depressing. They’re not doing depressing. They’re doing _Saturday Evening Post_ and Rockwell and _picturesque_.

“Hey,” Henry says, bumping his shoulder into hers until she meets his gaze. “It’s fine. I’m home again.”  
  
“I know you are,” Emma says, like she’s willing herself to believe it. “I know, kid. And I’m glad you’re here. All three of you.” Henry narrows his eyes, like it isn’t the response he’s expecting and Emma tilts her head in confusion. “What am I missing?” she asks.

“Mom didn’t tell you? Hook didn’t tell you?”  
  
Emma shakes her head slowly, eyes darting back towards the pond and the sounds of _family_ and Nadia’s still holding the stick, trying to shoot a makeshift puck towards David. “Did you guys all just decide to get really horrible at telling stories this weekend?”

“That’s kind of rough, Mom.”  
  
She scrunches her nose, leaning forward to rest her forehead against Henry’s and he’s not really a kid – he’s got a kid of his own and a life of his own, but it’s so _nice_ having him back in Storybrooke and she’s kind of greedy. “What’s going on, kid? Why was Ella out here last night?”

“We were...scouting.”  
  
“Scouting?”

Henry nods, squeezing Emma’s shoulder before he sits up straight. “For some space. You know to build things.”  
  
“Build things?” Emma parrots and Henry widens his eyes when she doesn’t understand immediately. It takes another two seconds, one sip of hot chocolate and a smile on Henry’s face when it’s obvious she _does_ understand. “Oh my God,” she stammers and the smile turns into a grin and something else that’s far too sentimental to be part of the real world.

It makes perfect sense in fairy tales.

“Henry,” Emma breathes. He nods. “You’re...you want to stay?”  
  
He squeezes her shoulder again and she’ll probably think about that very specific smile every day for the rest of her life. “I found the story, Mom and it led me to my family and then back again. And now, uh, well I’m here. Again. Indefinitely.”  
  
The tears in her eyes take her a bit by surprise.

They probably shouldn’t.

She’s so goddamn happy she can hardly see straight.

“Good,” Emma mutters and then they’re a mess of limbs and mumbled words and she holds on far too tightly and Henry nearly knocks over the thermos of hot chocolate.

“Did you figure it out yet?” Regina calls from the pond. Killian comes to a near-perfect stop next to her, his own smile and something that feels a bit like hope radiating off him.

“Figure what out?”  
  
Regina rolls her eyes. “The magic. Obviously.”  
  
“I don’t…” Emma starts, shaking her head and she wishes things would stop making sense so suddenly. It’s kind of jarring. “The magic,” she shouts, leaping up and, in the end, she’s the one who knocks over the hot chocolate. “You said the magic reacted to...to us. That it was clinging to its job and its purpose, but that wall...that was Elsa trying to find Anna. Trying to find her family.”  
  
“Ding, ding, ding.”  
  
“So it was waiting for us?”

Regina nods slowly. “It was waiting for a family.”  
  
It’s almost _too_ much, but Emma’s still fairly certain her mother was talking to birds a few minutes ago and her pirate captain husband is questionably good at ice skating and her son is coming home, so she’s really not going to argue any of it.

If some ice magic from another realm wants to provide them all with a pond for holiday moments, then she’ll take it.

“Mom,” Nadia yells, clinging to David’s leg when he moves back towards the middle of the makeshift rink. “You’ve got to come out! We’re going to have a….what’s it called, Grandpa?”  
  
“A shootout,” David says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Obviously.”  
  
“Oh obviously,” Emma grumbles. She takes Killian’s outstretched hand anyway and when she nearly trips over her own skates, his arm tightens around her waist and his lips find the curve of her jaw and it’s perfect in a way that everything should be perfect the day after Thanksgiving.

“You’re not quite a natural are you, love?” Killian mutters and she grumbles something under her breath that works another laugh out of him and another kiss.

She was kind of hoping for the second one.

“Shut up, not all of us just have questionably good balance no matter the terrain,” she mutters. Henry laughs while he lines up his shot and Regina must have magic’ed them a hockey net too.

“I promise not to hold it against you, love.”

“Yeah, yeah, see if you get any more pie later.”  
  
He twists her around, hands landing on her hips and she can feel the smile on his face when he ducks his head and kisses her. “I love you, Swan,” Killian says and Emma’s almost positive her toes actually get warmer.

“I love you too.”

She’s as bad on ice as advertised, but she ends up being a pretty good MC and her mom joins her in the bleachers after a few less-than-impressive attempts on net.

It becomes a thing – in the way that most things become _things_ , little traditions that explode into holiday definitions and the pond never melts. Magic, it turns out, is pretty awesome sometimes.

And it only takes two more trips to the pond for Nadia to announce she’s _going to play hockey_ and, well, that’s that. Killian and Henry start watching more YouTube videos and Emma’s not sure she’s ever seen anything more attractive and adorable than waking up on a Saturday morning to find Killian and Nadia camped out on the couch with a laptop in front of them and Olympic highlights on the screen.

None of them understand what icing is, but it’s only peewee league and they don’t really follow any of the rules and no one hits anyone and Nadia Jones makes her on-ice debut with pads and a uniform and a small, but very loud, cheering section just a few months later.

It doesn’t surprise Emma at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt from @preciouscucumber on Tumblr: hi friend! if you are willing to write fics about the CS baby at all, i have a prompt! she turns five and demands to play peewee ice hockey, and to emma’s astonishment, killian knows how to skate. really, really well. “what, love? you thought that in my 300 years of piracy, i never learned to conquer the frozen parts of the seas, as well?” cue daddy-daughter practices, emma being announcer/fan while sipping hot cocoa and henry plays goalie across from roland, who can barely skate but wants in


	4. Playing Man Down, Part 1

It’s hot.

She remembers that.

She doesn’t remember much else. It all seems to happen in a blur – anger clouding her vision and her muscles and Emma’s vaguely aware of making some kind of strangled sound, but she can barely hear it over the rushing in her ears and then she’s moving and her hands are moving and it’s not exactly good form, a fact Neal is quick to point out, but she’s fueled solely on frustration and fury and, possibly, global warming.

Because it is so goddamn fucking hot.

She punches him and smacks at his shoulder and then tries to check him, without a stick in her hand and she wishes she had a stick in her hand because she’d slash him in the knees. That’s not even the right term.

Neal would point that out as well.

Because, she’s suddenly realized, Neal Cassidy is a goddamn fucking asshole.

“This is something we’ve known for years,” Ruby mutters after Emma’s just recounted the story again and her words are starting to slur together the more she repeats herself. Or the more alcohol she drinks.

She’s had a considerable amount of alcohol to drink.

“Hey,” Elsa chastises softly, but it doesn’t really sound all that threatening when the three letters all sound like one, enormous sound and Emma’s head is starting to pound. Mary Margaret is an incredibly heavy weight against her side, resting on Emma’s shoulder with an arm draped over her legs and a faint hint of _tequila smell_ just wafting through the air. “Don’t do that,” Elsa continues. “Now is not the time for _I told you so’s_.”

She blinks once when she realizes she’s just mumbled a word that isn’t actually a word and if Emma still weren’t so incredibly _pissed off_ she’d probably laugh. She can’t laugh with Mary Margaret more or less lying on top of her.

Elsa mouths _so’s_ again, like she’s testing it on her tongue and Ruby makes some kind of God-awful noise that might be a laugh, but just sounds like a cackle. It hurts Emma’s head. And her entire body.

She’s fairly certain she dislocated her middle finger earlier.

“Here,” Graham says, appearing out of nowhere with an actual tray in one hand and an understanding smile on his face. “You need to hydrate. Desperately.”

He sinks onto the edge of the coffee table Emma’s feet are propped up on, resting the tray on his knee and nodding towards the glasses of water, an unspoken command to _take them_ and _hydrate_ that Emma knows she should listen to, but absolutely does not because even the idea of consuming any sort of liquid that isn’t tequila seems like the worst idea in the history of the world.

Or maybe that was beating up her boyfriend earlier that afternoon.

Ex-boyfriend. Decidedly ex. Happily ex. Absolutely.

“I need another drink, Humbert,” Emma announces, leaning forward and that’s an even worse idea. The whole room spins with her and Mary Margaret makes some contradictory noise in the back of her throat.

Graham levels her with a knowing stare – some kind of look that seems to scream _you are an adult, act like one_ , but Emma just huffs and sticks her tongue out and Ruby cackles again.

It’s all Neal’s fault, really. And she could do it. She absolutely could do it. She could…

“Emma,” Graham says, snapping her out of her thoughts before she can stand up and try to find Neal so she can punch him in the face again. “Stop thinking about it. It’s not going to change anything. And it’s not even a good gig.”

She growls, slinking lower into the couch until one of her legs falls off its perch on the coffee table. “It’s absolutely a good gig,” Emma argues and they’re all starting to repeat themselves again. “And I could totally do it.”  
  
“I’m not questioning that.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Seems like it.”  
  
“I’m not.”

“Yuh huh.”

Graham scowls, grabbing a glass off the tray and pushing it into Emma’s hand until she doesn’t have any choice but to actually accept it. She’d dump water on Mary Margaret’s head otherwise.

“Ok,” Ruby announces, waving her hands through the air and barely managing to keep her balance on the seat she’d claimed as hers as soon as Emma told the story the first time. “Go over it one more time.”  
  
Emma’s not sure who makes the loudest noise – it might be her – but Ruby just glares and it’s not even midnight yet and she’s lost track of the number of drinks she’s had and she kind of feels bad for Graham because he absolutely did not agree to be everyone’s keeper that night.

“Fine,” Emma sighs. “The story, as I have told sixteen-thousand times already is that the bonds business I was working at went under unexpectedly without much notice and, now, if I want to keep this very lovely apartment we all seem intent on destroying tonight, then I need a job for the summer.”  
  
“And you decided to ask Neal about a job?” Ruby asks. Emma rolls her eyes. They’ve been over this, at least, twelve-thousand times. “Why?”  
  
“They’re dating,” Elsa says reasonably and Emma’s definitely the one who makes noise that time.  
  
“Were,” she corrects. “Were dating. That’s not a thing anymore. That is the opposite of a thing. What’s the opposite of a thing?”  
  
“I think those exact words.”  
  
Emma’s eyes are going to get stuck rolled into the back of her head. She tries not to think about that – her tequila-filled stomach can’t quite cope with that. “Anyway,” she continues, tracing absentminded patterns on Mary Margaret’s back. “He’s got that summer thing with Regina Mills’ clinic or whatever and there are rich kids to teach lacrosse to and I figured he’d be all in on us getting to spend the summer together and playing and…”  
  
And it didn’t work.

Or, well, more to the point, Neal was positive it wouldn’t work.

Emma wasn’t sure it was a particularly distinct difference, but it seemed to be the crux of the problem. She’d heard of the Mills clinic for years – teammates who’d signed up to coach during the summer and it’d be hot, but the pay was good and the kids were, probably, talented if not a little pretentious because they were spending their summer at a _lacrosse clinic_ , but she wouldn’t have to worry about room and board and, well, she was a former All-American. She’d set _records_ at UMass for God’s sake.

Neal didn’t seem all that impressed by it.

“It just wouldn’t work, Em,” he said, like she was supposed to accept that answer. She didn’t. She kept pushing and asking and finally he just sighed dramatically and rolled his whole head and told her what he was really thinking. “It won’t work because you’re a girl and girl’s lacrosse is...well, it’s not real lacrosse is it? There’s not even any checking. You get fouled for checking. What are you going to teach these kids, Em?”

Her memories got kind of hazy after that, just flashes of red that might have been a visible representation of the questionable heat wave they’d had in the last few days, but also might have just been her anger and Emma didn’t listen to anymore explanations before she started throwing fists and absolutely against-the-rules checks.

“So, the short version, since I’m not repeating myself anymore,” Emma says. “Is that he thinks I couldn’t work at this clinic because I am a girl and girls can’t play lacrosse and don’t know how to check, which is just...insane, right Humbert?”  
  
Graham blinks once, as if he’s surprised to be involved in the conversation, and they’re going to have to buy him a ridiculous amount of replacement tequila for dealing with all of them for most of the night.

“Of course, Em,” he promises with a smile and Emma’s suddenly thrown several years into the past with memories of meeting Graham Humbert at forced athletic icebreakers freshman year. He’d set records at UMass too – assists in a single-season their junior year and the guy’s team was awful, but it was early Division I years and Humbert never complained.

He never did anything wrong.

They asked him to coach at the clinic weeks ago.

“Plus,” Ruby adds, still wobbling slightly until Graham pushes a glass of water in her hands as well. “What Cassidy failed to realize was that you’ve got all that pent-up aggression stored from years of _not_ being allowed to check anyone and go along with all those weird restart rules.”  
  
“You’ve been holding in your feelings about women’s lacrosse for awhile haven’t you?” Elsa asks knowingly, one eyebrow lifted and Ruby shrugs in response.

“It doesn’t make any sense. Why are the rules different? They aren’t in soccer.”  
  
Mary Margaret makes another noise – another age-old argument and none of them should really be friends. It doesn’t make any sense at all.

Emma was never sure how she stumbled into lacrosse, but for a kid who spent most of her childhood shipped around the country, a sport that allowed her to, literally, carry a stick and hit people had its appeal. Until she got to high school and learned the rules for _her_ brand of lacrosse and it took an entire season of penalty minutes and unreleasable fouls to change her approach.

It worked out – UMass came calling the spring of her junior year and she didn’t have many other offers, certainly nothing else Division I, and it was impossible to turn down a free ride. There was a lacrosse joke in there somewhere.

And the irony that she was about to play for a team called the Minutemen when she’d spent most of her career arguing against _girls rules_ was not lost on Emma.

It was the first thing Ruby had talked about when they, quite literally, ran into each other at another required athletic event. “This is the worst isn’t it,” Ruby grumbled and Emma nodded and, well, that was that.

They kept talking and kept bashing the ancient, vaguely patriarchal tendencies of the NCAA and Emma met Mary Margaret three weeks later. She’d grown up with Ruby in some tiny town in Maine and she was the living, breathing embodiment of all things _sweet_ , a physical therapy major who wanted to work with athletes eventually – or so Ruby told Emma. And, for awhile, Emma believed her until she went to one of Ruby’s soccer games with Mary Margaret who seemed to lose any semblance of sweet as soon as a tackle wasn’t called and, well, that was that.

Again.

Elsa joined the fray second semester, a slightly frantic request from the student newspaper to interview Emma before the start of the season and she started by explaining that she _knew nothing about lacrosse_ and Emma smiled and answered questions anyway and Ruby and Mary Margaret took her out for drinks when the story ran.

The four of them were some kind of collective unit from there on out – anyone needing to get in touch with all of them only having to text one of them and the message would, eventually, get passed along and they were all in the stands when Emma scored twice in the A-10 championship their senior year.

Graham drove them to the regional finals on Long Island and they were some kind of weird, five-person pretzel of limbs and tears when the Minutemen lost.

And not much had changed since graduation – even if athletic careers were some kind of distant memory now. Until Emma’s very steady, very well-paying job all but disappeared in front of her and she thought, for a moment, of past glory and championship goals and, for the first time in a very long time, she wanted to check something.

She could absolutely work at this clinic. Even with different rules.

“It’s not really going to be fun,” Graham says and Emma dimly wonders if they’re all following a conversational schedule she wasn’t aware of, because she’s fairly positive they’ve done this already as well. “It’s going to be like school all over again and working those summer camps with screaming kids.”  
  
“Except these screaming kids have really rich parents,” Elsa adds. Graham glares at her. “I’m just saying. This is a little different than kids coming for a couple of hours a day in Amherst.”

“Exactly,” Emma shouts, like that’s just proved her point. “And I don’t even really care about the kids. It’s not...well that sounds shitty, but this is not about that.”  
  
Graham lifts his eyebrows. “What is it about then?”  
  
“Screwing over Neal Cassidy.”  
  
“Fucking finally,” Ruby mumbles, but Emma’s eyes don’t leave Graham’s and his lips twist in thought. Or like he’s trying to mind-meld with her and force her to give up on whatever path of revenge she’s already halfway down.

They stay that way for what feels like several eternities until Mary Margaret makes some kind of inhuman noise, leaping away from Emma like she’s just contracted a deadly plague. “Jeez, M’s,” Emma mumbles, taking a gulp of water before she remembers that it’s water and not tequila. “What’s your deal right now?”  
  
“I’ve just had an absolutely incredible idea,” Mary Margaret shouts and the whole room collectively winces at the volume of her voice. “Plus, if I’m there to do the training stuff, then...oh, shit this could work.” Emma nearly falls over, which is impressive since she’s sitting down, but she’s never heard Mary Margaret talk like that. It’s probably the tequila. “I mean it’s insane, but...this could work. I think. ”

“You think?”

Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically. “Ok, Humbert, what time do you have to be there next week…”  
  
It is absolutely the most insane idea in the history of ideas. It’s as if Galileo and Thomas Edison and, like, someone else who invented something all got together and, collectively, decided to try and come up with the most insane idea in the history of ideas just to spite all those people who didn’t believe in them before, but Mary Margaret keeps talking and Ruby keeps pouring drinks and by the end of the night it almost makes sense.

Which is how Emma finds herself on the campus of goddamn Towson University four days later with a bag in one hand and a stick in the other, trying to keep her breathing level when she tells a slightly overwhelmed looking woman at a fold-up desk “Hi, my name is Graham Humbert, I’m one of the coaches for the clinic.”

The woman behind the desk – there’s a name on a sticker that Emma can only half read, but might be _Aurora_ – nods distractedly, flipping through a small stack of paperwork and handing Emma a folder with a string of instructions she’s only half listening to.

“You’re with Jones and Scarlet,” she says, like those words have actual meaning. “So, uh, there’s an elevator or stairs and it’s the sixth floor and room...whatever it says on your folder. There’s keys in there, but you’ll have to go get an actual ID if you want to ever eat while you’re here. Lunch starts serving in a couple of hours and then there’s meet and greets with all the kids later on tonight.”  
  
Aurora lifts her head when Emma doesn’t immediately respond and she feels her eyes go wide when the woman actually meets her gaze.

They cut her hair – or, rather, Mary Margaret cut her hair – and it was definitely a _look_ , but both Ruby and Elsa promised it fell somewhere in the realm of _hipster, but masculine_ when she actually put a wig on and left that morning and it was some kind of miracle Emma could even breathe because she’d wrapped her boobs up so tight she wasn’t entirely convinced her ribs weren’t going to sustain permanent damage.

She doesn’t really look...like a guy, but she doesn’t really look like _her_ either and, as a very drunk Mary Margaret was quick to point out, no one at this clinic was going to know what Graham Humbert actually looked like.

Except Regina Mills. Who’d hired Graham. But he promised she had no plans of being there and as long as Neal didn’t recognize her then none of it mattered.

At least that’s what Emma kept telling herself while she spent nearly eight hours in her ancient VW bug that morning.

“We all good?” she asks, doing her best to sound like a guy. It doesn’t work. At all. Her voice just sounds scratchy and fake and Aurora tilts her head in confusion. “I, uh...just want to make sure my equipment’s all set before we do anything later tonight.”  
  
Aurora quirks an eyebrow. “There are just icebreakers tonight.”

“Right, right, right, I absolutely knew that. Because you just told me that. And I read the schedule already. Several times. When I got hired to be here.” Aurora nods again and Emma’s fairly certain her ribs have started to crack. “Alright, well, I’m going to….”

She doesn’t finish, just hitches her bag further up her shoulder and practically sprints up the first flight of stairs she can find, not willing to wait for an elevator. There’s a stitch in her side by the time she reaches the fourth landing and this was a mistake.

In some kind of grand, sweeping way.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes and she’s not out of shape. She runs down criminals. She can do the same thing with a stick in her hand and a ball in her stick and she’s suddenly so full of determination and _fury_ that she’s almost surprised she doesn’t just levitate to her room with Jones and Scarlet, whoever they are.

It'll be fine.

Except that one thing.

It’s the one part of the plan even Mary Margaret hadn’t quite figured out.

“What happens when you have to shower?” Graham asked, tugging on the bottom of Mary Margaret’s shirt until she collapsed into a heap on their living room floor. “These are guys, Em. You can’t just...take half an hour in the shower every morning.”  
  
“Ok, first of all, that’s rude and stereotyping,” Emma argued. “And I know how to take quick showers. I probably set records at Amherst with that. All that foster home experience, you get in and get out before someone flushes the toilet or the house runs out of hot water. This is fine.”  
  
“And what about the rest of it? You’re going to have to, you know, make it look like you’re a guy.”  
  
“I’m not expecting an audience while I shower.”  
  
“I’m just saying.”  
  
“Are you not in on this? You said you were in on this. This is all so I can show up Neal and then, you know, ruin his lacrosse life or something.”  
  
“You’re a picture of maturity,” Graham sighed, but there was a hint of a smile on his face and he couldn’t argue with the combined, very drunk force of four UMass grads with a plan. “And, yeah, I’m all in on this. Of course.”

It was going to be fine.

So she has roommates. Emma’s always had roommates. Granted, they’ve always been girls and she’s never actually had to tape her boobs down just to try and stay under some kind of metaphorical radar, but this isn’t about that.

This is about fucking over Neal and it is...easily the most insane idea she’s ever had.

She’s frozen in front room 619, resting most of her weight on her stick and trying to psych herself up again when the door swings open and oh, well, _fuck_. God _fucking_ fuck.

She’s going to kill Humbert. He should have told her.

He should have warned her...or something. Anything. He should have cut whatever wires in her bug made her bug capable of driving her from Boston to Baltimore because then Emma wouldn’t be standing stock still in the middle of a hallway at goddamn Towson University, breathing through her mouth while trying to will her heart rate to slow down.

The guy widens his eyes – all blue and vaguely amused and he’s got a Maryland t-shirt on. His hair’s nearly as long as Emma’s is, even after it’s been cut, and there’s a piece falling across his forehead that is just absolutely _stupid_ because it’s obvious he’s not trying at all, just casual confidence and certainty and his ribs probably aren’t cracking.

Because he’s a guy.

 _He is a guy_.

“Can I help you?” he asks, resting against the side of the open door frame with his arms crossed over his chest and that only serves to scrunch up the Maryland state logo emblazoned on his shirt.

Emma nods slowly, trying to force her brain to catch up to the moment at hand and the guy’s eyes flit towards the stick in her hand. “Are you the third, then?” he continues and Emma’s fairly convinced he’s just started speaking in tongues.

“I have no idea what that means,” she says and the guy just smiles even wider. His eyebrows are stupid. Emma takes a deep breath, hitting herself in the hip with her own bag when she pushes her right hand in front of her. “Humbert,” she says and it almost sounds like the truth. “Graham Humbert. UMass ‘10.”  
  
The guy doesn't blink, just keeps staring at her outstretched hand and maybe she shouldn’t have done that because she definitely doesn’t look like she’s got guy’s hands. It takes, exactly, two seconds to realize that is not the issue.

He rocks back on his heels, twisting his lower lip between his teeth – which is decidedly distracting for absolutely all the wrong reasons – and tilts his head when he holds his left arm out towards her.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

And it all clicks very suddenly.

Emma is absolutely going to kill Graham.

She can’t quite believe she didn’t recognize him – but it’s been years since that national championship run and, really, the Maryland t-shirt threw her off. “You didn’t go to Maryland,” Emma accuses and Killian Jones’ eyebrows fly up his forehead. She thinks he maybe, almost, smiles at her too, but his left arm is still hanging in the space between them and, well, there isn’t a hand to shake there.

It wasn’t national news – no one cares about lacrosse that much – but she’d heard the story and Graham thought it was _tragic_ and Emma thought it was absolutely _fucking unfair_ because Killian Jones had been good, great, _fantastic_ , some kind of faceoff specialist that they’d probably put in a hall of fame if lacrosse was a sport people actually cared about.

He won something like ninety percent at the ‘x’ when he was a senior and no one had really even heard of Monmouth before, but suddenly they were getting votes in national polls and winning games and Killian Jones kept getting the ball to his attackers and they kept scoring goals and, suddenly, they were beating Hopkins in the national championship game.

He won nearly every postseason award possible and he couldn’t actually go to the Tewaaraton ceremony because he’d been too busy playing in a national final and it was some kind of impossible run that even _Sports Illustrated_ acknowledged once. And then it was _tragic_ and _fucking unfair_ and it wasn’t like he could do much more than coach after he graduated, but he was going to, or so the rumors suggested, until there’d been an accident and it was impossible to win a faceoff with one hand.

“That’s true,” Killian says, eyeing her cautiously and they were both still frozen in the doorway. “But I’ve been doing ops at Maryland for a season and a half now, so, you know, they give you free stuff.”  
  
“Is that not an NCAA violation?”  
  
“I’m not an actual student-athlete anymore.”  
  
Emma hums – a mistake because she sounds so much like _her_ , she’s positive Killian can see through her clothes or something. Thinking that is also a mistake. There’s more talking from inside the room and another set of footsteps and Emma’s eyes dart for an escape route.  
  
There isn’t one.

“Is this the third, then?” another guy asks, pushing Killian out of the way and leaning towards Emma with an expectant look on his face.

Killian nods, eyes still tracing over Emma and she tries to stand up taller. She hits herself with her bag again. “Yeah,” Killian answers. “Humbert comma Graham. UMass class of 2010, apparently.”  
  
“UMass has lacrosse?”

“We’ve had lacrosse for nearly a decade,” Emma snaps. Killian grins. “It was just...shitty when they...I mean, I...when I started playing. But the women’s side won the A-10 just a couple seasons after we moved up.”  
  
“Impressive,” other guy mumbles in a way that makes it sound the exact opposite. Emma glares at him and she can’t start beating up her roommates before they even get to icebreakers.

Killian smiles wider. “Alright, alright,” he says, licking his lips and elbowing other guy in the ribs. That almost puts them all on even footing. “Humbert, class of 2010, this is Scarlet, comma Will, class of absolute asshole and a former goalie at Monmouth.”  
  
“And you were making fun of my program,” Emma seethes, well aware that she doesn’t have a leg or a stick to stand on. They won a national championship. “What kind of competition you dealing with in the MAAC?”  
  
Scarlet almost looks impressed. “Probably not quite as good as whatever Division II you started out as.”  
  
“God,” Killian sighs, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling and pushing Will back into the room. “Shut up, Scarlet. Although I really don’t think you can start trash talking this early, Humbert,” he adds. “There’s rules about trashing-talking form.”  
  
“Are there?” Emma asks and Killian grins, lower lip stuck out slightly when he nods.  
  
“Absolutely. Although I’m not entirely sure what form goes along with further introductions  since you seem to know where I went to school already and, based on your staring issue, I’d say the rest of my very public history, so, uh...if you’re good, then we’re going to get some food.”  
  
He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just nods toward Scarlet who makes sure to glare at Emma when he walks by, leading with his shoulder and _fucking hell_ this is a disaster. “See you on the field later, Humbert,” Killian calls over his shoulder when there a few feet away and Emma throws her bag into the room as soon as she hears his footsteps retreat.

She doesn’t leave the room until her stomach actually starts making noises that don’t quite sound human anymore, but downing dining hall food like she’s being timed doesn’t do much to help the state of her ribs and by the time she gets to icebreakers, she’s treading some very thin metaphorical ice.

“This is a goddamn disaster,” Emma hisses, leaning against the railing behind the end zone of the football stadium they were staging some sort of _get to know you_ event on. Mary Margaret shoots her a look, one she should probably have patented by now and Emma tries not to sigh too loudly. “It is,” she continues. “I should just...I don’t know, just go or something before this dissolves into a criminal offense.”  
  
“You can’t get charged with anything when you have Graham’s permission,” Mary Margaret argues. “At least, I don’t think so. And, you know, you guys are splitting all these work checks, so it’s totally legit. Absolutely. For sure.”  
  
“You really shouldn’t have kept talking M’s.”  
  
Mary Margaret just levels her with _that_ look again and Emma’s not really paying attention to any of the kids or the clinic or whatever it is Neal is doing with a group of guys who he seems to already be well acquainted with. “And,” Mary Margaret continues. “There is a plan. It’s a good plan. It’s not like Neal ever met Graham. He has no idea who you are. You really don’t even look like you right now.”  
  
“You’re only saying that because you're the one who cut my hair,” Emma reasons, but Mary Margaret just waves a dismissive hand in her face.

“I’m not. I’m saying that because you can do this and because…”

She trails off, eyes darting up when someone walks towards them and Emma tries not to shake her. Instead, she follows Mary Margaret’s gaze and barely has a moment to turn her groan into any other noise before she’s standing face to face with another guy and another outstretched hand.

“Hey,” he says brightly, an easy smile on his face and a t-shirt with a comically large orange on the front. He doesn’t seem to even notice Emma. “You uh….they’re starting some game about first names and I figured, well, since you’ve got two, you might get bonus points or something…”

Emma snorts, biting back hysterics and Mary Margaret stares imploringly at her. _An absolute disaster_. “Hi,” Emma says, taking the outstretched hand and she’s given up on trying to do any voice that isn’t hers. “I’m Graham Humbert. UMass. M’s and I went to school together.”  
  
“David,” he answers. “Nolan. ‘Cuse longstick.”  
  
“Yeah, I wouldn’t have been able to guess that at all.”  
  
“Em…” Mary Margaret shouts, eyes going wide when she realizes what she’d almost done. David looks momentarily confused, but then his gaze flits back to Mary Margaret and it’s like he’s rediscovered his center of gravity and Emma wonders what kind of science she’d need to just melt into a puddle on the Towson football field.

“Ah, well,” David says, stuffing his hands back in his pockets when he pulls away from Emma. “They told us to support our teams when we got here, which doesn’t really go along with the community feeling they’re telling us we’re building tonight, but whatever. Pays good, right?”  
  
Emma hums noncommittally in the back of her throat, rolling her shoulders in her UMass gear. “Longstick, huh? Middie or defenseman?”  
  
“Defensive middie.”  
  
“Best of both worlds.”  
  
“Something like that.”

Mary Margaret looks torn between several different emotions, but Emma finds herself almost liking David Nolan, defensive middie, and she’s got half an idea of what’s going on here. The other half of her mind, however, seems preoccupied with the voices calling from midfield and cheers from the crowd of kids with rich parents who can afford to spend their whole summer at a lacrosse clinic.

And it’s like the world slows down for a moment because Emma knows who’s running towards her before he even skids to a stop in front of them and she can just barely make out David’s mumbled _is everything ok_ when Neal lands in front of her and Mary Margaret.

He blinks once and Emma can’t breathe – her lungs are on fire and her ribs are just disintegrating, she’s positive. “Oh,” Neal says, perking up when he notices Mary Margaret. “Hey Blanchard. Long time no see.”  
  
Mary Margaret visibly bristles, narrowing her eyes and Neal is just as ignorant as always and Emma is glad Ruby isn’t there because she absolutely could not deal with another _told you so_ moment. “Neal,” Mary Margaret says softly. “It, uh….well, you’re here, aren’t you? Have you met David Nolan? ‘Cuse. And, uh…” She glances towards Emma, a million questions on her face and Emma shrugs in response. “This is, uh...Graham Humbert. Played at UMass when we were there.”

Neal’s eyebrows shift, but he doesn’t seem to realize anything and Emma wonders how long she can go without oxygen finding its way to her brain. Probably not much longer. She takes a deep breath, shoulders heaving and poor David Nolan looks decidedly out of place. “Nice to finally meet you,” she says, thrusting her hand out into the open space in front of her. “I’ve heard some stuff.”  
  
“Good stuff I hope,” Neal grins and Emma makes a contradictory noise in the back of her throat. Mary Margaret tries not to laugh.

“Stuff,” Emma repeats.

Neal’s lips quirk down and Emma tugs her hand back to her side, glancing up when she can hear Killian Jones yelling about teams and rules and _playing to ten, but win by two_ and oh _fuck_. They’re going to play.

Game on or whatever.

“Right, right,” Neal mumbles. “Well, uh, some of the kids are going to play a little bit and I think that Jones guy is going to make sure we don’t all kill each other, so, uh...I was just coming to see if you guys wanted to suit up.”  
  
David wavers for half a moment, glancing at Mary Margaret like he was hoping for a few moments – or possibly an entire lifetime – alone, but Emma’s already nodding. “Yeah,” she says, staring at Neal. “You going to play?”

“That’s why I came over here.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Neal looks at her for half a beat and that one corner of Emma’s mind that is still certain this is a goddamn _disaster_ is positive he _knows_ , but then he blinks and the look is gone and she’s far too competitive to care one way or another.

They’re already handing out sticks by the time Emma, David and Neal rejoin the crowd and Killian looks momentarily amused when his eyes land on her. “Ah, Humbert comma Graham,” he says. “I thought you’d disappeared.”  
  
Emma’s going to check him. In the head. “I’ve been around,” she answers evasively and the smile on Killian’s face evolves into a smirk that is both the single most obnoxious and attractive thing she’s ever seen. “You going to give me a stick or you just going to stare all night?”

It’s petty and a little immature, but it gets the smirk off his face and Killian nods before pushing a worse-for-wear stick against Emma’s chest. “Try not stun anyone with your Division I talent, Humbert,” he growls and Emma grimaces in response.

“Watch me,” she mutters.

Someone gives Killian a whistle and there are more rules Emma absolutely doesn’t listen to because she’s got a stick in her hand and a ball in her stick and she’s not sure if she’s trying to show off for everyone else or a bit for herself, but she spins away from a defender and lets out some kind of _whoop_ when the ball lands in the back corner of the net.

It took thirty-seven and a half seconds.

“Holy shit,” Will grumbles, leaning behind him to fish the ball out of the net. “That was a rocket, Humbert.”  
  
Emma shrugs and Neal is standing slackjawed a few feet out of the crease. “You said you went to UMass,” he says and it sounds like the accusation it absolutely is. Emma nods. “Did you...you know my girlfriend then?”

She can hear herself breathing, which is the only proof that she still is, but it’s loud and just a bit haggard and Emma’s whole body stiffens at the present tense of that particular question. Neal waits for an answer and Will coughs awkwardly there isn’t one.

Emma’s dimly aware of David a few feet away from here and Killian blows that stupid whistle again, shouting about faceoffs and staying _on track_ and Emma licks her lips before lining up again, a ringing in her ears she’s not sure will ever disappear.

It doesn’t. And the game sort of...falls apart after that.

She doesn’t score again, probably accounts for what feels like four-hundred turnovers and picking up a groundball is, suddenly, the most difficult thing in the world. She gets whistled for a slash, whipping her stick across the back of Neal’s calves and it’s the product of frustration and disappointment and athletic-based anger. It leaves Neal yelling about _fucking intent to harm_ and Mary Margaret actually gasps when she sees the bruise already forming and Killian drags Emma off the field, fingers wrapped around her wrist and words mumbled under his breath.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Emma yells, yanking her arm back to her side when they’re on the sidewalk outside the stadium. She elbows herself in the process.

He doesn’t stop moving, pacing a small semi circle until he’s turned back towards her and Emma can practically feel the heat radiating off him. She’s an absolutely disgusting mess – sweat pooling at the base of her spine and dripping down her temple and underneath whatever contraption is still crushing her ribs and maybe she can just stay in Mary Margaret’s room for the night.

That won’t help anything.

“Are you insane?” Killian barks, glowering at her as if she’s just drawn an unreleasable with two minutes left in the national championship game.

Emma meets his expression with one of her own, landing back in the realm of _pissed the fuck_ off rather quickly. She’s never quite done well with authority – or assholes telling her what she can and can’t do on the field. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she mutters and maybe she should just stay angry all time because her voice doesn’t really sound like hers anymore.

Killian takes a deep breath, tugging the oxygen in through his nose and his shoulders move with the force of it. He twists his lip in between his teeth again, running a frustrated hand through his hair, unable, it seems, to stop moving or staring at Emma like she’s arrived solely to ruin the integrity of lacrosse.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says after what feels like several lifetimes, but his voice has lost that threatening edge it had a few moments before. “That’s…do you know Cassidy?”

That’s not the question she expects.

She’s not sure what she expects, but a week ago she would have been positive that breaking into a lacrosse clinic pretending to be one of her best friends was the absolute _last_ thing she ever expected, so, all things considered…

Killian just waits for a response, breathing evening out and someone else is blowing a whistle inside the football stadium. “Yeah,” Emma mumbles. “I, uh, do or did…” She shakes her head, trying to will away any sort of misplaced emotion, determined to linger in angry as long as possible. “He...dated one of my friends?”  
  
“Was that a question?”  
  
“No, no, I mean he did, but he’s a colossal dick so…”  
  
“So you were what, exactly?” Killian asks. “Defending your friend’s honor by being a complete fucking idiot on the field?”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, frustration shooting through all of her limbs and lingering at the base of her spine with the sweat. It’s a disgusting thought. “No,” she snaps. “Well, I don’t know...why do you care? It’s not like you’re some pillar of lacrosse purity here.”  
  
She has no idea what makes her say it – probably something about that anger and stubbornness to _prove herself_ born out of a lifetime’s worth of not being enough and Killian takes a step away from her as soon as the words land between them. “True,” he says slowly, fingers tapping lightly on the brace at the end of his left arm. “But...well Cassidy might not be the best guy to try and go up against here.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“How much did your friend tell you about Neal Cassidy, former starter at UNC?”

“Plenty.”  
  
“Yeah?” Emma nods, but she can feel her certainty slipping through her grasp and she’s not sure she can find the right word to describe the look on Killian’s face. He takes another step towards her. “Cassidy is here because of his name and his father’s ability to make things very difficult for Regina and _her_ company if he didn’t have a paying gig all summer. You think she wanted him here? She knows his family, apparently knows his dad and, boom, just like that lil’ Cassidy isn’t working for the family business anymore, he’s got a job all lined up teaching kids how to destroy kneecaps with a one-handed shot outside the crease.”

Emma never really knows how she managed to stay standing, but her own kneecaps seem to take Killian’s words as some kind of challenge and she doesn’t move when he grins at her. “I don’t...Gold knows Regina?” Killian hums, but there’s a flash of confusion in his eyes. He didn’t expect her to know names. “I didn’t….I didn’t know that.”  
  
“Why would you?”  
  
She shakes her head, dragging in a ragged breath and silently promises herself never to make another decision fueled on tequila and Mary Margaret’s optimism ever again. “No reason,” she mumbles. “And did you say something about kneecaps?”

“I did.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what? I thought you knew all about me.”  
  
Emma groans, rolling her head back and that’s a mistake because her fucking hair nearly falls off. “I know generic facts that the entire lacrosse world knows,” she argues. “It’s not as if I’m secretly stalking your life.”  
  
He does something stupid with his eyebrows, sinking onto the edge of a flower arrangement outside the stadium. Emma doesn’t move. “I grew up with Cassidy,” Killian mutters and Emma’s not sure how much more surprise her body can withstand. “At least kind of. He lived down the block from my mom’s house in a much larger house and played travel ball and club ball and sneered at the idea of high school teams and he went to UNC and I went to a school in fucking New Jersey and when we played against each other in that regional final, he played like he was possessed. Started slashing everything he could.

I think he set some kind of record, but it didn’t work and he kept ending up in the box and we were winning. Until he checked me, straight across the back, no whistle and I lost the ball. He scooped, stayed onsides and didn’t even try to score. He shot at Scarlet’s kneecaps, took him out of the game. Nearly fucked up the whole thing and I don’t think that backup goalie ever really recovered. He’s an ass. Cassidy. Not the backup goalie. He’s got three kids and lives in Tacoma with his very nice wife who bakes things.”  
  
“She bakes things?” Emma echoes and Killian’s eyes shoot up towards her, disbelief etched into every single inch of his face.

“Yeah. Cookies. Cupcakes. Apparently an absolutely delicious carrot cake that she brags about in all of her Christmas newsletters.”  
  
Emma barks out a laugh and for half a second she forgets everything else except the slightly cautious smile on Killian’s face and her mind roams to completely impossible ideas and it’s as if the entire world flips upside down.

She can’t believe she didn’t realize. Well, no, she can, but she’s kind of mad at herself that she clearly isn’t capable of doing basic math, but she’s always heard that regional final loss differently and she never paid much attention to Neal when he started talking lacrosse.

He always seemed to want to talk about his stat line.

That probably should have been a sign.

God, Ruby’s never going to let her live any of this down.

“Christmas newsletters sounds very adult,” Emma mumbles, rocking awkwardly on her heels when she realizes she’s still standing up. Killian nods towards the seat next to him and she tries to keep, at least, six inches of space between them.

“It does, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Carrot cake sounds fucking awful though.”  
  
It’s his turn to laugh at that and Emma’s mind has some kind of mind of its own, picturing _things_ and this is now an even worse idea than the worst idea in the history of the world. “It’s not bad with the icing,” Killian muses. “How...how long did you friend date Cassidy?”  
  
“Nearly a year. Her friends, well….they...we hated him. Knew he was kind of a dick and self-important and I mean, you know, he played at UNC. What even is a Tar Heel?”  
  
“I have no idea.”  
  
“Exactly. And then he was always kind of Glory Days’ing things and harping on how great UNC was and just the entire ACC which is, you know, whatever….lacrosse is a countrywide sport now.”

Killian laughs. “I went to Monmouth, you don’t need to tell me about the growing popularity of lacrosse. Although that Denver national championship helped things. UAlbany too. Give a couple of kids a stick and tell them they can hit each other and they’ll come flying in.”  
  
“Is that part of your recruit pitch at Maryland?”  
  
“Almost verbatim,” he grins. “Although we barely made it out of the Big 10 this year, so I’m not sure I’m doing much in the way of actually accomplishing anything. Need a faceoff kid.”  
  
Emma tenses slightly, licking her lips and she’s not sure what to say next. “That’s not easy though,” she mutters. _Nailed it, Swan. Absolutely dominated._ “And I’d imagine your requirements are fairly high.”  
  
“At this point my requirements are trying to find a kid who can win it clean without getting a violation and we have to play man down.”  
  
“Ah, well, maybe you can find someone here. Change someone’s life or something.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” he asks, glancing at her over his shoulder and Emma pushes her palms flat against the stone she’s sitting on until she’s almost positive she’s cut up her hand. “Plus the money. And to get Scarlet to shut up.”  
  
“Does he need to be shut up?”  
  
Killian doesn’t answer at first and Emma wonders if she’s overstepped some imaginary boundary, but she sees his shoulders move when he takes another deep breath and he doesn’t blink when he looks at her. “He got the invite since, technically, he can still play, your goal notwithstanding. And he got me in because he knew I’d have some time during the summer before workouts start and he figured it’d be good for me. Bring me back to my humble beginnings or something after the shit season we had.”  
  
“Humble?” Emma asks. “How so?”  
  
“I never would have been able to afford any of these things when I was a kid,” Killian says, rushing over the words. He’s still looking at her. “I, uh….my brother did his best to help, but he was older and there were only so many ways to play lacrosse by yourself. So I kept working and shooting against the side of the house until I’d broken just about every window and there was a scholarship to one of these prestigious clinics the summer before my senior year. I went and played and that’s where I got offered. It was the only team that even looked my direction.”

“Yeah, me too,” Emma mutters before she realizes what she’s said. Killian looks as if he’s going to fall on the sidewalk. “Uh, I mean...well I kind of bounced around when I was a kid and I played because I could and it was an outlet in a very stereotypical way, but I didn’t think I could do anything with it until UMass showed up. Winning the A-10 was some kind of dream.”  
  
She smiles and forgets, for a moment, that she’s not _Emma Swan, All-American_ and that’s her first mistake. Killian narrows his eyes and Emma’s breath hitches, ribs aching and lungs shrinking, or something absolutely impossible, and he twists his lips when he stares at her.

“Right,” he says slowly, standing up and nodding towards the discarded sticks behind them. “You should bring those back to equipment. Don’t go after Cassidy again. He’ll destroy you where you stand.”  
  
Emma doesn’t say anything, barely even has a chance to register the words before Killian’s turning away, fingers wrapped around his left forearm and this is the worst thing she’s ever done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt from @teamhook on Tumblr: How about something like She's The Man? You write sport fics so beautifully. All your fics are.
> 
> This one got a little....out of hand. So there are two parts. And it's about lacrosse. Not soccer. Because I have lots of lacrosse feelings I didn't realize I was holding onto until just now.


	5. Playing Man Down, Part 2

She won't ever go as far to say that it’s good, but Emma’s almost comfortable on the field and the kids don’t seem to realize what’s happening and, well, her hair hasn’t actually fallen off while she’s playing yet, so, really, she can’t complain.

She’s almost gotten some kind of routine going and no one seems to suspect anything – even when Will mutter something about never seeing Humbert actually shave, but that only draws laughs and Emma curses him to several different afterlifes and, well, that’s that. She teaches shooting technique and answers questions about how to use a defender as leverage and leaping across the crease and Mary Margaret keeps flirting with David Nolan, longstick defensive middie from Syracuse.

Emma tries not to think too much about that last one.

She doesn’t have anything to complain about.

Not really.

Except when it comes to two things – Killian Jones and Neal Cassidy. Emma can absolutely complain about both of them because, she’s convinced, they are both trying to drive her insane.

Neal is, as expected, a complete and utter asshole on the field. He cheats on faceoffs and ignores whistles and there’s a small group of kids who seem to think he’s some kind of lacrosse _God_ in the sort of stereotypical way that sets Emma’s teeth on edge and leaves her pacing in Mary Margaret’s room mumbling _lax bros_ under her breath.

Killian, meanwhile, is trying to drive her insane in a way that she absolutely does not have time for. He can’t play, but he’s clearly good at what he does – coaching technique and working with some of the kids who don’t seem intent on making it to the ACC and he seems to be spending more and more time with this one kid, fine-tuning a faceoff technique that’s already so good Emma’s pretty certain he could set records before he even gets to college.

It’s where she finds him later that day, nearly a month after that first night, and she can barely hear Killian’s voice when he starts muttering instructions.

“Your wrists need to move quicker,” he says and Emma knows it’s not the first time he’s mentioned that. The kid groans. “Yeah, yeah, I know your life is so tough,” Killian laughs, standing up and he’s got three balls gripped in his right hand. “Ok, ready, set, win.”

He drops the ball and it takes the kid less than ten seconds to scoop up each one, wrists moving faster than the speed of light – or _whatever_ , Emma has enough on her mind to ignore proper science. She must make some kind of noise because Killian’s head snaps up and she’s not sure what happens to his face, but it sends a shockwave of _something_ down her spine.

She is an absolute mess.

“Humbert,” he says and the kid starts tossing a ball up in the air. “Thoughts and analysis on Henry’s technique?”  
  
“I’m not a faceoff guy,” Emma counters, crossing her arms. “But you looked good. Don’t you need to drive the head of your stick more?”  
  
The kid – Henry – groans again, head thrown back towards a perfectly blue sky and Killian’s laugh seems to sink into every single one of the air molecules around them. Or _whatever_. “I told you,” Killian says, grabbing a stick off the ground to nudge against Henry’s leg. “You drive, flip your wrist and you win ninety percent of the time.”  
  
“Just ninety?” Emma asks and Henry gapes at her. “Seems kind of low don’t you think?”  
  
He nods enthusiastically. “Ninety….three?”  
  
“Seems reasonable. Don’t you think so, Jones?” Killian’s eyes flash and he rests his weight on the bottom of the stick until there’s a tiny divot in the tuf. “You’re going to destroy the field,” Emma points out and Henry keeps laughing. “You scared Henry’s going to come for your records?”  
  
“No,” Killian answers immediately and Emma tries not to actually gasp at the sound in his voice, an emotion she can’t quite name, but feels decidedly familiar. “Henry could probably hit ninety-seven if he’d flip his wrists quicker.”  
  
None of them say anything and it kind of feels like the calm before some kind of lacrosse-based storm, but Emma’s never been very good at any of this, so she starts talking again, babbling _positives_ she doesn’t really believe in, but feels obligated to point out. “That almost seems like a challenge, doesn’t it, Henry?”

“I could get to ninety-seven,” Henry says, a confidence in his voice that Emma is fairly certain didn’t exist at the beginning of the summer. “Maybe even score.”  
  
“Don’t you leave the field after faceoffs?”  
  
He shrugs, undeterred by something as trivial as too many men on the field or offensive rides. “Eh, probably in college, but maybe not in the clinic game in a couple of days.”

“What?”  
  
“Didn’t you hear?”  
  
Emma shakes her head slowly, glancing towards Killian who appears to have moved into the cloud of the oncoming lacrosse-based storm. “It was Cassidy’s idea,” he grumbles. “He wants to split up instructors and kids. Basically what we did the first night, but with real refs and maybe you not trying to kill him.”  
  
“I didn’t really try to kill him,” Emma mumbles, but Henry’s started laughing again and talking about goal chances and shot attempts and her mind’s several days away when her phone buzzes in her back pocket.

“Are you under attack, Humbert?” Killian asks and Emma resists the urge to react, well, like her.

She bites the inside of her cheek and doesn’t roll her eyes and Mary Margaret has texted her half a dozen times already. “No, no, no,” Emma mumbles and Killian’s phone makes noise at the same time. “Something about pot and kettle then.”

He rolls his eyes and Henry looks slightly confused. It’s understandable. Emma’s slightly confused. “No pots or kettles,” Killian grumbles. “Just...needy ACC grads.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You know that Nolan guy?” Emma nods and her cheek is probably going to sustain permanent damage. Her phone buzzes again. “You need to do something about that?” Killian continues, nodding towards the piece of technology clutched in her hand. She shakes her head. He doesn’t look convinced. “Ok, well, uh...I guess that Nolan guy’s trying to, this sounds incredibly high school, he wants to ask out that athletic trainer.”  
  
“Mary Margaret,” Emma finishes immediately. Henry is still laughing.

“Right, right, Mary Margaret. So he wanted to ask her out, but he’s twelve or something or they both are because there’s apparently been some discussion about a double date and her best friend being in town and….”

He trails off when Emma’s phone threatens to blow up in her hand, eyebrows pulled low and something that felt a bit like an accusation settling in the air around them. “Can’t Nolan go out with a girl on his own?” Emma asks, doing her best to sound like anyone who isn’t her.

It doesn’t work.

It fails miserably.

Killian shrugs, thumb moving distractedly over his own phone screen. “Apparently not. And Scarlet’s got some clinic on Friday night and then _his_ girlfriend is going to be here for the weekend so I am the only option left. Or so I’ve just been informed.”  
  
“Jeez,” Emma breathes and she’s going to strangle all of her friends. Ruby’s probably crying with laughter somewhere in Boston. Killian makes another noise and Mary Margaret’s texts are taking on a slightly manic tone, pleading **_it’ll be fine and you can wear an actual bra_** and Emma nearly chokes on air.

“You ok?” Henry asks and Emma nods quickly. It doesn’t help the oxygen get to her lungs. Or, apparently, her brain because she texts Mary Margaret back.

**Yeah, alright, but I’m not paying for my dinner.**

Mary Margaret comes up with some kind of excuse to meet David and Killian at the restaurant and Emma barely recognizes herself when she stands in front of the mirror, short hair practically taking her by surprise when it’s not tucked under a wig and her heart hammers against her chest when they walk into the sushi place with mood lighting, _God_ , just a few blocks off campus.

David beams when he looks up – eyes falling on Mary Margaret immediately and it’s disgusting and romantic and everything a version of Emma who snuck into a lacrosse clinic to get revenge or _whatever_ would find absolutely repulsing. As it is, however, it’s also kind of charming and Mary Margaret’s never looked like that in the history of _ever_ and Emma’s not quite so far gone that she can resent her best friend this.

It’s close, but only just.

And Killian Jones looks unfairly good, sitting with a drink in front of him already and an expectant expression on his face, like he’s already preparing for the set-up worst. His eyes move when she pulls the chair out, scraping across the floor and Mary Margaret and David could elope right there and Emma probably wouldn’t even notice.

This is a problem.

“Hey,” Emma starts, sinking onto the chair and Killian quirks an eyebrow. “What are you drinking?”  
  
“A considerable amount of sake to get through the evening,” he answers. Emma nods, pursing her lip and Mary Margaret owes here several lifetimes worth of...something for this night. “You want something?”  
  
“Yes. Several somethings.”  
  
He grins at her, but there’s a hint of surprise in the move, like he didn’t expect it and Emma relishes that for a moment throwing caution to the goddamn wind and reaching forward to grab his half-finished drink. She downs it in three gulps, shivering when the alcohol lands in the pit of her stomach and she’s warm again, but for a reason she hasn’t been in quite some time.

Killian looks stunned. “Nolan never told me your name,” he says, tugging the glass out of her hands and she’s never been shocked, but she imagines it feels a bit like his fingers brushing over hers.

“Swan,” she replies. “Emma Swan.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“That’s exactly what I just said.”  
  
“I’m not questioning it,” Killian laughs, a bit more at ease than she’s seen in weeks. Except in the few moments when Henry listens to faceoff instructions and when, Emma is quick to realize, he’s making fun of Scarlet while he plays goalie for her quick release just outside the crease. “Just...are you sure we haven’t actually met before?”  
  
The alcohol in her stomach seems to rise up into her throat and then burn every inch of her mouth or something equally impossible and Emma nearly bites in her lip in half. Killian widens his eyes. “No,” she says, too quickly to be the truth. “I….no.”  
  
“So that’s a no, then?”  
  
“That’s a no. You need to order more sake.”  
  
He hums and smiles and it makes her feel a bit drunk and that hardly seems fair. “You didn’t answer my question, love,” he points out, the smile morphing into something decidedly _teasing_ when she rolls her eyes at the endearment. “Swan,” Killian corrects, tapping the side of the empty glass. “What are you drinking?”  
  
She doesn’t think before she answers. “Sake.”

They don’t stop after the first glass. It’s like some sort of unspoken challenge and Emma is nothing if not questionably competitive.

And maybe looking for a bit of a distraction from the Hallmark Channel movie taking place on the other side of the table.

Mary Margaret and David will probably get engaged by the end of the date, Emma’s half convinced, but that may just be the rum talking, or thinking, and possibly because she can feel Killian’s stare on the side of her face the entire night.

“Alright,” Killian says suddenly when Mary Margaret has started _giggling_ and David looks like he’s trying to decide where they should send their kids to college. “Tell me something.”  
  
Emma tilts her head, trying to wade her way through the alcohol haze she can feel lingering around her and nothing really feels like it’s in focus anymore. There’s a lesson in there somewhere. “What do you want to know?” she asks, defenses rising automatically.

He seems to realize though, rolling his shoulders and nodding towards her half finished plate. “You didn’t want to come here,” he says.

“Not a question.”  
  
“You are a stickler for the rules, aren’t you, Swan?”  
  
Emma shrugs and makes a noise that’s almost an agreement, but isn’t quite loud enough to be anything more than vaguely sarcastic. “I like when my food is cooked,” she says, drawing a laugh out of Killian that she may think about for far longer than she should, particularly when she needs to sleep in the same room as him later.

“A bold decision,” Killian grins.

And maybe Emma laughs. Or giggles. God, what the hell is happening? “You didn’t really eat yours either,” she adds, nodding towards his plate and the bits of discarded food. “What did you...just eat the rice?”  
  
“And the salmon. But not the actual roll part.”  
  
“You’re a picky eater.”  
  
“No, no, no,” Killian objects and Emma is frustrated to realize she’s being absolutely charmed by all of it. “I am a practical eater. I’m not going to turn down a meal, particularly when I’ve been living on dining hall food for the last month, but this is...questionable at best.”  
  
“So you draw the line at, what?”  
  
“Seaweed.”  
  
Her laugh is honest and easy and it seems to slink through each one of her muscles until she’s calm and comfortable and she nearly forgets about whatever is happening at the other side of the table, far too preoccupied with the blue in Killian’s eyes and that piece of hair and the way he seems to lean towards her out of instinct.

“That seems fair,” Emma smiles. Killian does something _absurd_ with her eyebrows that she’s convinced she can feel in her toes or the space between her previously suffering ribs. “So your mom and your brother were ok with your picky eating habits, then?”

Ah, well, fuck.

She tries not to actually slink into the chair, pressing her heels into the ground until the straps dig into her skin and Killian stares at her like he can’t quite decide what to do next. “How do you know that?” he asks softly and just a bit intently.

Emma nearly shivers. She wishes she could maintain a normal body temperature. “I, um…” she stammers. “Humbert told me. A couple...a couple weeks ago.”  
  
It’s, easily, the least believable lie she’s ever told and she’s spent the last month pretending to be a guy. Killian doesn’t look convinced, flicking his wrist when he downs another drink and Emma tries not to chew through her lip.

“Right,” he breathes. “And that would make you...Humbert’s….”  
  
“Friend.”  
  
“The one he was so intent on defending?”

Ah, well, fuck. Again. Constantly. This is a mistake, a massive, colossal mistake and Emma isn’t sure if she could actually run in the heels she had on. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” she mutters and Killian actually laughs.

“Sure you don’t,” he nods. “Ok, I’ll try again. Did you date Neal Cassidy for a year only to discover what an absolute asshole is he?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, appreciating the way Killian’s lips tick up, as if he wasn’t expecting that either. “I did. He, uh….thought I couldn’t play.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Lacrosse.”  
  
Mary Margaret and David have basically moved to the same side of the table at this point and it’s so fluffy, Emma is momentarily concerned about cavities, but that thought disappears as soon as she notices Killian’s eyes darken. “You want to take a walk, Swan?” he asks,

She nods before she can come up with the eighty-two million reasons it’s the worst idea in the world. After all, she’s already had so many of those.

They walk in silence for a few minutes and Killian’s hand flexes half a dozen times, clenching into a fist and back out again and there’s blood in her mouth. It’s disgusting. “Where’d you play?” he asks suddenly, and she nearly trips over her own feet.

He catches her, hand flat on the curve of her hip and his hand is warm and solid and _big_ and she’s clearly lost control of her entire goddamn life.

“UMass,” Emma mutters and his eyebrows fly into his hairline. “What feels like a million and two years ago.”  
  
“Was it?”  
  
“I feel like that’s an insult.”  
  
Killian grins and it’s like everything shifts or settles and Emma feels like she’s backed herself into a corner in the middle of the sidewalk somewhere in downtown Towson. She wasn’t aware there _was_ a downtown Towson until that night. He squeezes his hand lightly, thumb brushing over the front of her dress and shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t do that, Swan,” he promises. “At the same time as Humbert, then?” Emma nods and she doesn’t remember moving her hands until they’re both resting flat on his chest. He is so goddamn warm. He should be studied. She doesn’t say that. “And you played…”  
  
“Attack. All-American.”  
  
Killian makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds a bit like _impressed_ and she only sort of hopes he is. “How many goals a season?”  
  
“I have no idea. It was a long time ago.”  
  
“Yes you do,” he argues easily, still grinning at her and his fingers wrap around her wrist like there’s a magnet there. “C’mon, Swan, humor me. How many goals a season?”

“Double digits.”  
  
“That’s not an actual number, love.”

She glowers at him and the nickname and the butterflies in her stomach threaten to fly out her throat. It’s as gross as that whole alcohol _thing_ was before. Emma licks her lips and she’s fairly certain Killian’s eyes follow. “On average, twenty-four,” she says. “But my senior year we won the A-10 and I had, like, thirty goals that spring.”  
  
“Like?”  
  
“Thirty four. And twenty-two assists.”  
  
Killian lets out a low whistle and that’s definitely impressed. “That’s incredible, Swan,” he says, an honesty in his voice that leaves very little room for doubt. “You won the A-10 the same year Humbert did?”  
  
“What?” It takes, exactly, one second and two deep breaths to realize what she’s said and it’s good she didn’t eat any of that sushi when she’s clearly far too busy digesting her own foot. “Oh, right, right, right,” Emma mumbles. “Um….yes. Yeah. It was, you know, crazy in Amherst.”  
  
“Crazy in Amherst.”  
  
“Exactly that.”  
  
Killian hums again, nodding like he’s considering her promise that Amherst, Massachusetts is even capable of being anything except _picturesque_ or decidedly _sleepy_ and quintessential _New England_ and Emma holds her breath, teetering on the edge of some kind of metaphorical knife.

She better be the maid of honor in Mary Margaret and David’s eventually wedding and then the godparent to all their inevitable children and, for good measure, she should be written into their will. Or something.

The will thing seems a little intense.

“I’m starving,” she announces, tugging lightly on the shirt she nearly forgot she was still clinging to. “I want….anything that is not sushi.”  
  
“I think we can do something about that, Swan. There’s a burger place a couple blocks away from here.”  
  
“Well, I was promised a walk.”

He smiles and it lands in the pit of her stomach with the sake and the butterflies and she tugs lightly on his shirt again before turning back down the sidewalk and….hoping. Killian teases her onion rings order and she questions how he can put mustard on a cheeseburger and the girl behind the counter grins like she _knows_ something behind the cash register.

Emma wishes she would share.

“So are you going to answer your own question?” Emma asks. They’re the only people in the entire restaurant.

“I’m not sure I understand those words in that specific order, Swan,” Killian admits, leaning forward until the toe of his shoe nearly brushes hers and he takes an onion ring off her plate.

“You wanted me to tell you something before. Let’s turn the tables or however that saying goes. Your turn. Tell me something.”  
  
“Anything?” Emma shrugs. Killian twists his lips and considers his answer for a moment, crossing his arms lightly. She doesn’t look away from his face. “I thought about giving up the sport completely after I got hurt.”  
  
She’s not sure what any of her internal organs do at that – stop and then start in double time or just constrict painfully until Emma’s half convinced she’s going into shock. “How...how did you get hurt?”  
  
“Standard sob story. Car accidents and shouldn’t have been me and a moment that changed everything. All the usual clichés.” Killian smiles when Emma makes a noise, reaching his hand out slowly only to pull it back and it’s a painful give and take that doesn’t help any of her internal organs or whatever battle they’re currently staging.  
  
“Anyway,” he continues. “I got hurt and it was like the whole world flipped and then flipped again, just to make sure I couldn’t get my bearings and I left the coaching gig I had at some tiny Division III in Virginia and went back home and…”  
  
“Neal,” Emma breathes and Killian looks stunned.

“What?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“I...Humbert talks a lot and, um….” She waves her hand through the air, desperate for some kind of natural disaster so she’ll have an out or a distraction or anything to look at that isn’t the slightly disappointed, vaguely confused look on Killian’s face.

“Right,” he says. “Well, Humbert wasn’t wrong even if I might cross-check him later for talking shit. I went home and tried to get a job out of Gold and Cassidy Inc, figured they could use someone to do...whatever I was capable of doing. They laughed me out of the fucking office. Some receptionist told me they weren’t interested, which didn’t quite match up with the several dozen job openings on the internet, and I’ve never actually met Cassidy’s father, but I’d imagine the decision came from him and winning that game.”  
  
“Fuck,” Emma mutters, drawing a sarcastic laugh out of Killian. “That is...God, don’t tell Humbert that. He’ll slash him in the knees during that game next week.”  
  
Killian nearly smiles. “It all ended alright, Swan,” he says. “There was a guy on my college team...backup goalie. Turns out his cousin twice removed on his great-grandmother’s side or something knew the head coach at Maryland when they brought in a new staff last year, put in a good word and here I am, consistently paying my rent and not entirely resenting a sport I can’t play anymore.”

She’s never been _this_ – confident or trusting and she had four friends in college for God’s sake. She still only has four friends.

But Emma’s gotten to know Killian Jones, faceoff specialist, for the last month and, now, she’s gotten to know Killian Jones, human being, and she’s found she’s pretty interested in both.

So she doesn’t think – which seems to be the trend at this point – just leans forward and tugs Killian’s hands apart until her fingers are wrapped around both wrists and she’s not sure either one of them is breathing, but neither one of them move.

“It’s a good story,” she says. “And maybe I understand resenting a sport you used to love.”  
  
“Because of Cassidy?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “Not in the way you think. More in the way that I grew up playing this game, grew up hitting people and finding a place on the field when all the places seemed to disappear every couple of months and then UMass offered and, uh...that was all I had. So I went and I played and we never even came close to a national title, but it was good.

I mean...it wasn’t a family, not really, but it was as close as I could get and it was something bigger than all of that. Does that make sense?” Killian nods, eyes wide and blue and she _believes_ him. “But, you know, for as progressive as we all claim we are, there’s not really much of an audience for sports on the woman’s side of the bracket and even less opportunity when Title IX isn’t requiring us to have a chance and as soon as we lost that regional game, it was all over. It’s not like there’s a pro league or anything. Not even a fake pro league.”  
  
“I think Major League Lacrosse may resent that, love.”  
  
She doesn’t argue the endearment and both of them realize that. Neither one of them acknowledge it. “That is not a real league,” Emma grumbles and Killian squeezes her hand. “But, well, at least it’s something, even if all those guys need other jobs out of season. And I didn’t even have that. I had a regional final and a season-ending loss and that was it. It was over and I was just supposed to be fine.”  
  
“Why don’t you coach?”  
  
“What?”

“Coach,” Killian repeats, as if it’s the most obvious choice in the world. “Mention your stat line senior year and any program in the country would hire you.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s true.”  
  
“I think you’re very pessimistic, Swan.”  
  
Emma shrugs and she can’t really argue with him. “College coaching isn't just something you can break into, you know.”  
  
“A fact I am almost painfully aware of.” She rolls her eyes. He still hasn’t let go of her hand. “And I’m not suggesting Division I right away. There are plenty of high schools and DIII, hell I bet a junior college would trip over itself to try and get you on staff.”  
  
“You really know how to flatter a girl, huh?” Emma laughs, mostly so she doesn’t do something stupid like kiss him in the middle of abandoned burger place in downtown Towson.

“I’m being honest.”

She believes him. Again. She has no idea why. Probably something about the way his fingers lace through hers and whatever it is his thumb is doing on her palm.

“You should think about it,” Killian continues, a certainty in his voice that seems to vibrate through Emma’s whole...being. Or something less _Mary Margaret and David_ and a bit more _realistic_.

Emma tries to smile. “Maybe.”  
  
“A work in progress, Swan.”

It’s not cold out – it’s nearly August and Maryland and the air is heavy when they walk back outside, an extra order of onion rings clutched in Emma’s hand. Killian keeps trying to steal pieces and laughing when she swats at his wrist and it’s so goddamn _easy_ , Emma is convinced it’s a dream.

That’s the only probable explanation.

And she has to go put on a wig again to go sleep next to him in the same dorm room. It seems decidedly unfair.

“You are a pirate,” she accuses when he tries to grab the last piece of fried batter out of the cardboard container.

He shrugs and quirks an eyebrow. And it’s _stupid_. This whole summer is supposed to be about getting revenge or something or just proving to Neal that she can play, but Killian’s promises of _incredible_ seem to echo in Emma’s ears and she can’t quite remember any of Neal’s questions anymore. “I think you’re just too slow on your onion ring defense, love,” he counters and she’s pleasantly surprised to find she doesn’t want to slash him.

She wants to...flirt with him. Maybe. This feels a hell of a lot like flirting. And that sounds a hell of a lot like something a college co-ed would say.

“I am not a defender,” Emma points out. “And neither are you.”  
  
“True, but if you want to get technical, I wasn’t ever really on attack either.”  
  
“That’s absolutely a technicality. Did you ever score a goal?”  
  
He shakes his head, lips pressed together tightly. “Not in college. I ran decoy once where they thought I still had the ball in my stick, but I was just defensive fodder.”  
  
“Trick plays? And who’s this eponymous they?”  
  
“The University of North Carolina Tar Heels.”  
  
At some point tonight, she’s going to fall and break her entire face and it’ll make flirting a hell of a lot more difficult. “Oh,” Emma breathes and she doesn’t argue when Killian grabs the last onion ring. He rips it in half. _God_ . “Oh, oh, right, that was...the year you won the title?”  
  
“Humbert sure does talk a lot.”  
  
“He’s a gossip.”  
  
“Don’t tell me things like that, Swan. You’re giving me trash talk, fodder.”  
  
“I promise he’ll be able to handle it.”

Killian makes a noise and it’s absolutely stupid how attractive it is and they’re stopped a few feet in front of the goddamn dorm building. “Ah, right,” he mutters, rocking back on his heels and she’s going to wax his eyebrows off in the middle of the night. “But what about you, Swan? Do you think you could handle it?”  
  
It’s stupid.

It’s a line.

It’s a bad line.

It’s so far away from a line that should be able to work on another cognizant human being that Emma almost assumes they’ve both just started speaking another language.

It shouldn’t work.

It kind of does.

She kisses him. And it all so happens so quickly, Emma’s brain can’t quite process it, but it’s still functioning in a language that isn’t her own, so, really the whole thing almost makes sense. She presses up on her toes and tugs on the front of his shirt and Killian makes some kind of _absurd_ noise that will make falling asleep in the same room as him while pretending to be a different person absolutely impossible.

It’s like she’s crashing against him or the other way around and his hand finds its way into her hair, tugging her back when she moves and neither one of them seems all that predisposed to actually move. They just keep...going. They break apart and then fall back towards each other and Killian’s breath hitches when her nails drag across the back of his neck.

Emma smiles.

And then immediately remembers what she’s doing.

“Oh my God,” she mutters, stumbling backwards and out of all the very horrible, terrible, _insane_ decisions she’s made in the last five weeks, this is, absolutely, the worst. “Oh my fucking, God. This is...holy shit.”  
  
Killian stares at her, uncertainty in the pinch between his eyebrows. “I...that was…”  
  
“A one-time thing,” Emma snaps and Killian looks like he’s been cross-checked. Five minute, unreleasable penalty. “That...that can’t happen again.”  
  
She can see his teeth sink into his lower lip and it sends a shock through her whole system, like she’s just played a whole game in the snow. She feels the exact opposite of hot. She feels...frozen.

It’s disappointing.

“Right,” Killian agrees softly, quiet enough that she can barely hear him over bustling metropolis of Towson. “Right, of course.”

“I’m going to take a walk.”  
  
“Swan….no, no, it’s late...I can…”  
  
“I can take care of myself.”  
  
“I’m not questioning that.”  
  
“I’ll be fine. Mary Margaret's probably back by now anyway.”  
  
It’s another lie, but the line between fake and real is starting to blur even more and Emma’s not sure it hasn’t disappeared altogether. She wants to kiss Killian again. “Ok,” he whispers, nodding a few times like he’s trying to convince himself. “I’ll, um…”  
  
“See you around,” Emma finishes.

Lame. Awful. The worst thing _ever_.

She grimaces and every muscle in her face objects at the move, but then she takes a step around Killian and that’s, somehow, even more difficult and Mary Margaret is definitely not in her room and Emma has to go back to her own dorm eventually.

She walks around the block six times and it takes an hour and her feet are killing her by the time she circles back around to the dorm building, tugging her heels off as soon as she swipes her ID card. And if the night guard notices anything, he doesn’t actually voice his questions, just nods in her direction when she moves towards the elevator lobby.

It’s her first mistake.

Well, no, it’s not, but it’s definitely her worst mistake.

It’s after midnight and they have early sessions for _fun_ and extra money on Saturday’s and Emma just assumes the sixth-floor hallway will be abandoned. She dimly remembers one of her high-school history teachers having a saying about what happens when you assume something and she resents the fact that her mind goes there as soon as she hears _him_ shouting her name.

“Em?” Neal asks incredulously, standing a few doors down the hall with a look on his face like he’s just seen a ghost. “What...that’s Jones’ room.”  
  
She freezes – a fact her muscles did not appreciate at all. “Right…” Emma starts, digging her teeth into the cut in her bottom lip. “I, um….”  
  
“What the hell are you doing here, Em? Are you visiting Humbert?”  
  
“Yes,” she says, wincing when she doesn’t actually say the word like a normal human. She drags it out, like she’s considering her options, her hand still hovering just above the lock pad. “That’s...and M’s. I...went out with M’s and David Nolan. And, uh, Killian.”  
  
“Killian?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“That’s his room.”  
  
“Is it? I’m just here to see Graham.”

“But you didn’t know he was staying with Jones?”

Emma sighs, pressing her lips together and trying to stop herself from punching Neal in the hallway. “Alright,” she snaps. “Well, if you’re done with the interrogation I’m just going to…”

She nods towards the door, but Neal lowers his eyebrows and the smile seems inch across her face. Fucking hell. “You want to go get a drink or something?” Neal asks. “Ask Humbert.”  
  
“What? No,” Emma hisses. “Are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
“Why would I kid about that?”  
  
“You are easily the dumbest person I’ve ever met. No, I don’t want to get a drink with you. Even if Graham comes with us. Get out of here, Neal. I just...I’m tired.”

Neal doesn’t look convinced. Emma doesn’t expect him to. She really just wants to sit down. “Ok,” Neal mutters, possibly the first time he’s ever agreed to anything that easily. It’s another mistake. “Sure, Em. I’ll uh...maybe I’ll see you this weekend.”  
  
“Probably not.”

She doesn’t wait for him to say anything else, just flicks her wrist and pads into the room and she can dimly make out a dark thatch of hair on Killian’s pillow. She’s going to strangle Mary Margaret.

Emma toes her way through the equipment that seems to have taken up permanent residence on the ground, glancing at Killian’s bed and he doesn’t move. She thinks he’s asleep. She hopes he’s asleep.

She doesn’t ever fall asleep.

And, really, in the grand scheme of all the absolutely _shitty_ things Emma’s done all summer, she’s not even remotely surprised to find that it all blows up in her face.

She’s just surprised it takes that long.

They wait until Monday – a polo-sporting Towson public safety official knocking on the door an hour before any of their alarms are even threatening to go off and Scarlet grumbles under his breath when Killian mutters _get the door_ and throws a pillow in his general direction.  
  
“Fuck off, Jones,” Will growls, whipping the pillow back across the room. Killian catches it.

Emma tries to sink into her mattress. She’s spent most of the weekend holed up in solitary in Mary Margaret’s room so she doesn’t just try to start making out with Killian again, but, she doesn’t have much of a choice in sleeping arrangements. There’s a commotion at the door and Will mumbles another string of curses under his breath, but Towson public safety, apparently, will not be denied and Emma squeezes her eyes shut when she hears a set of footsteps stop at the end of her school-provided mattress.

“Emma Swan,” the officer says and her eyes snap open in just enough time to see Killian’s whole body sag down the wall.

“Yup,” Emma responds, popping her lips on the letter. The officer almost looks impressed and Emma can’t bring herself to look away from him, certain Will is open-mouthed and bordering on hysterical and Killian, well, she can’t think about Killian. “I’ll go and you know, no scene or whatever,” she continues, already tugging the goddamn wig off her head and shaking her hair out and she can feel Killian’s stare in between her shoulder blades. “But how did it happen?”

The officer definitely looks impressed.

“An anonymous source,” he explains and Emma scoffs. Fucking Neal Cassidy. “And a search of the room during the afternoon yesterday.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Killian shouts, jumping out of his bed and glancing at Emma. His eyes widen. She tries not to blush. It doesn’t work. “They can’t do that!”  
  
“Eh,” the officer objects. “It’s private property and you lot are Mills Athletics employees. It’s, uh, a grey area, maybe, but our tip was pretty solid and very certain we’d find something.”  
  
“What did you find?”  
  
“A lot of clothes, a lot of...female-type products...a driver’s license for Emma Swan and an open laptop searching coaching positions in the greater northeast.”

Killian’s head snaps towards Emma so quickly she’s momentarily worried about the state of his neck. “Swan,” he breathes and Will makes some kind of strangled noise that might just be the vocal enunciation of confusion.

“And,” the officer adds. “We have security footage of Ms. Swan coming into this room on Saturday night. That woman didn’t ever come out. At least not without a very convincing wig. It’s a good wig.”

“I’ll let my wig person know,” Emma mutters. Will is hysterical. He’ll probably get along with Ruby. Or he would. If Emma hadn’t fucked it all up. “Alright, well, uh, this sucks.”  
  
“What the fuck is going on?” Will demands, laughter still clinging to his voice even when Emma gets out of bed and tugs on a UMass sweatshirt. “You’re...you’re a girl? But you scored on me. Your shot is insane.”

“Scarlet,” Killian chastises, but Emma shakes her head.  
  
“Yeah, well, welcome to 2017 or something,” she mutters. “And I wasn’t here to score on you.”  
  
Will shakes his head and shrugs in confusion, ignoring the impatient tap of the public safety officer’s foot. Killian laughs – and it’s the last thing Emma expects. He grins at her. “Because of Cassidy?” he asks and one side of Emma’s mouth tugs up into a smile. “God, what a fucking asshole.”  
  
“Yeah, I think we’re going shot for shot on that one at this point.” Killian doesn’t disagree and Emma’s heart drops into her stomach. “Alright,” she wavers, rolling her eyes when the officer starts beating out a noise in double time. “Well…”

She doesn’t finish and that almost makes the most sense of anything that’s happened.

She tries not to wallow. Really. She does. She’s Emma Swan. She doesn’t wallow. She moves on and gets over and keeps on keeping on or something absolutely less lame than how absolutely lame that is.

Mary Margaret tries to apologize no less than two hundred and forty-seven times, but Emma’s still sleeping on her floor and it’s against the rules, but she doesn’t have a job in Boston and she can’t quite bring herself to leave yet.

She wants to see Henry at the faceoff ‘x’ against Neal’s lax-bro legion. She’ll probably come up with a better name for that eventually.

“It’s going to be fine,” Mary Margaret says when she comes back to her room a few hours before _the game_ , a metronome Emma’s positive she can time her vaguely depressing life to at this point. It’s become almost as frequent as the apologies.

Emma nods seriously. “I’m sure it is,” she agrees and Mary Margaret deflates. She really is the worst kind of asshole. “All those teams clamoring for a coach who got kicked out of a skills clinic she wasn’t even supposed to be at because her dick ex-boyfriend is a dick.”

“An absolute dick.”  
  
“It weirds me out when you say stuff like that.”  
  
“I’m mad. And it’s my fault.”  
  
“It’s not your fault, M’s,” Emma argues, dimly aware of the door Mary Margaret left open in her wake. “You didn’t force me to agree to the plan. And really I walked into it. I’m clearly too good and Neal couldn’t deal with it.”  
  
“I mean I don’t think you’re wrong.”  
  
“You’re far too supportive. I expect to be the de facto cool aunt for all your future children. Tell Ruby and Elsa now that I’ve demanded that role as mine and mine alone.”  
  
“Yeah, that seems fair.”

Emma’s not really a hugger – or the kind of person who’s spent the last week considering sending an e-mail to Killian’s Maryland athletic department account and explaining...something – but Mary Margaret keeps apologizing and she _feels_ every different emotion a human can feel and suddenly she’s moving and hugging and Mary Margaret’s making some kind of noise like she’s trying to will the moment into every corner of her memory.

And they’re so busy _remembering_ that neither one of them hears the quiet knock on the still-open door or the way the floor creaks when someone else joins the moment, only jumping when there’s a cough and a muttered _Swan_ and Emma actually gasps.

She’s not sure she’s ever done that before.

“Killian,” she mutters and Mary Margaret looks like her eyes are going to fall out of her head. “I...what are you doing here? There’s a game.”  
  
“In a couple of hours.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“I want to talk to you.”

Emma blinks, trying to make sure this moment hasn’t bled into the other moment or is just a figment of her imagination, but she closes her eyes and Killian’s still there when she opens them. “Yeah, ok,” she mumbles, shooting a glance towards Mary Margaret.

“Right, right,” she says quickly, waving both of her hands through the air and if this is how this all ends then it’s kind of fitting. And insane. “I will...I’ve got ankles to wrap.”  
  
She’s gone in a blur of muttered excuses and schedules that aren’t scheduled to get underway for another two hours and Emma’s never felt more anxious and nervous and _excited_ in her entire life.

She still wants to kiss Killian Jones – in any version of whatever story they’re currently running with.

He smiles at her.

“I’m sorry,” she says at the same time he takes a step towards her and it’s not exactly _perfect_ , but his hand lands on her hip again and she’s fairly certain he said words too. “Wait, what did you say?”

Killian’s smile gets more...smile’y and it sends a shock of heat through Emma’s whole body like she’s being jumpstarted or another metaphor that doesn’t make sense. He squeezes his hand. “I said that I knew,” he grins and Emma doesn’t realize she’s pushed up on her toes until she drops down on her heels.

“What? When? How long? Before Neal was a dick?”  
  
“Way before Neal was a dick, or at least this version of being a dick. I had an idea the first night. There was no way you could feel that strongly about Cassidy just on principle and he clearly didn’t know you well enough in that game to retaliate immediately. If he knew you, he would have. And then I was a even more sure two weeks ago when you were getting out of the shower.”  
  
Emma feels her jaw drop open and she’s exhaling so loudly it actually hurts. Killian’s still smiling. “I always waited until you were guys were gone! There was a whole plan.”  
  
“I don’t doubt that. But I left a glove upstairs one day and you were in your corner of the room with very loud music playing and it was easily the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me, but I could see your legs. You have very girly legs, Swan.”  
  
He flashes her a grin that she briefly considers smacking off or possibly _kissing_ off, but he’s not done yet. “And so I knew something was going on, but then it all timed up fairly perfectly when you started getting those text messages the other day. And you’d have known Mary Margaret, even as Graham Humbert, but your eyes were saucers when you realized I was going on the date too. Oh, also you messed up.”  
  
“What?”

Killian hums and there’s barely any space between them. She’s not even wearing socks. She hasn’t changed out of her UMass lax shirt in nearly forty-eight hours. “You said we won the A-10,” he says, like that proves _that_ and it absolutely does. “But then you were incredibly confused when I asked about Humbert winning the A-10. It’s because Humbert never won the conference. The actual Minutemen were garbage while you were at school. You, however, were incredible, love. Were you going to mention scoring in the regional final on our date?”  
  
He says it so easily Emma almost misses it, but then her heart tries to beat its way out of her ribcage and it’s like a pull, dragging her back into the conversation and forcing her to acknowledge words. “A date, huh?” she asks and Killian’s lips twitch. “I don’t remember that at all.”  
  
“There was kissing. That makes it a date, I think.”  
  
“You think?”  
  
“You tell me.”  
  
She doesn’t think. She doesn’t consider. She doesn’t _plan._ She just acts and Emma’s back on tiptoes with her fingers in Killian’s hair and her mouth on his and he makes _that_ noise again.

It’s goddamn perfect.

His arm tightens and he tugs her closer towards him until her body is flush against him and she barely has a second to acknowledge how well they _fit_ until she’s moving them or he’s moving them and she gasps when her back collides with the wall.

Or, maybe, she giggles.

Killian smiles against her lips, trailing kisses across her jaw and then back towards her mouth and her fingers are still stuck in his hair like some kind of anchor and maybe now Emma’s the one who has to apologize to Mary Margaret – for making out in her dorm room.

God, she didn’t even do that at UMass.

It’s been the weirdest summer in the history of the world.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Emma stammers, leaning back and wincing when her head collides with whatever the wall is made of. Concrete and steel apparently.

Killian widens his eyes, moving his hand away from her waist to cup the back of her head and drop a kiss on her temple. “Are you alright, Swan?”

“What is happening right now?”

“You were attack kissing me in your best friend's dorm room.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’ve got to use a different word, love.”  
  
Emma makes some kind of absurd noise and Killian laughs and the world has flipped. It feels that way. There is suddenly no gravity and Sir Isaac Newton probably would have invented a better plan to screw over his boyfriend and maybe get a new boyfriend.

She assumes. She has no idea about Sir Isaac Newton’s sexual proclivities.

“If you knew the whole time, why didn’t you say anything?” Emma asks. “Didn’t you...weren’t you curious?”  
  
“Incredibly, he admits. “But I figured you had reasons and you’ve got a hell of a shot. Seemed wrong to point out something that could prevent you from playing.”  
  
“Oh my God.”

“The only thing I can’t figure out,” Killian continues, muttering the words in her ear when she continues to struggle breathing. “Is why you were pretending to be Humbert. Why couldn’t you just be you?”  
  
Emma licks her lips. She’s certain Killian looks that time. “He told me I wouldn't be able to do it,” she mutters. “That they weren’t looking for women to coach kids and some shit about different rules and no checking and…”  
  
“And that’s why you tried to take his knees out the first night.”  
  
“Yeah, exactly that.”

“That’s the most convoluted plan I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“There was a considerable amount of tequila involved.”  
  
Killian kisses her forehead again and she’s some kind of maelstrom of emotions and want and she wonders if she can sneak onto the sideline without anyone noticing so she can see the game and cheer for Henry and maybe cheer for the guy in front of her when he coaches. It’s a weirdly sentimental thought.

Emma likes it.

“You’ve got an incredible shot, Swan. And Cassidy was never an All-American.”  
  
“Or Tewaaraton winner,” Emma adds, arms aching just a bit from hanging over Killian’s shoulders. She doesn’t move them. He presses against her front, a smile on his face and something that looks like _want_ in his eyes and she’s not entirely opposed to making out against walls again, but this moment is ready for another surprise.

“C’mon love,” Killian says, tugging one of Emma’s hands down and lacing her fingers with his. He doesn’t slow down when he drags her out of the room or down the pathway towards the field and Scarlet’s standing with a smile on his face just a few feet outside of the stadium.

He’s holding a Maryland t-shirt and shorts and Emma raises her eyebrows. Killian shrugs. “You ready for another convoluted plan, Swan?”

She nods.

And Will laughs.

They sneak her into locker room and get her a stick and block her from view when she stands on the sidelines and Henry _whoops_ and throws his stick in the air when Emma steps onto the field. Neal tries to argue when he realizes Emma is standing on the other side of the ‘x,’ but the referee, apparently, knows Killian and Will and hates the ACC on principle and Henry wins the opening faceoff.

It’s not the best game she’s ever played, but it’s not the worst and Emma doesn’t wince when she gets checked. She scores twice. And Henry wins, at least, ninety-eight percent of his faceoffs.

Emma can hear cheering from the stands when the final horn sounds and turns in just enough time to see them all standing on their chairs – Graham with his hands in the air and Mary Margaret with tears in her eyes and Ruby and Elsa made a sign. Of course they did.

And the thought hits her suddenly and immediately and steals her breath until she can barely keep her grip on her stick. He knew. He knew the whole time. He knew after she walked out of the dorm room.

He knew she hadn’t actually left the dorms.

Emma spins on the spot, eyes searching the crowd and then she’s running and there’s a stitch in her side and a bruise that she’s fairly positive will take over her entire right thigh later that night, but she doesn’t stop moving until she collides with Killian and he holds onto her.

“Did you do this?” she asks and he barely nods once before she’s kissing him. Again. Or forever. Or whatever.

Ruby’s whistling somewhere.

“I’m really gunning for that second date,” Killian mumbles against her and she kisses him silent.

* * *

They go on a second date and then several more after that and it’s a goddamn, fucking disaster when summer workouts start and Emma goes back to Boston, but it’s 2017 and the internet exists and they make it work because they’re far too stubborn to do anything else.

And Emma starts training wanna-be lacrosse stars and starts some kind of one-woman crusade against _lax bro_ and it makes Will laugh every time she uses that phrase on her nightly Skype calls with Killian.

“God, go away, Scarlet,” Killian growls and Emma smiles and they make it work.

She’s not sure who calls who first when they see the ad, just that both of their phones go to voicemail and they each leave messages demanding the other _hang up and then call me back_ and it takes four more rounds of that before one of them gets through.

It’s a job. A coaching job. At a community college in Baltimore.

She sends her resume. And hopes. And Killian Jones, _boyfriend_ , is nearly as supportive as Mary Margaret.

She gets the job on a Wednesday and moves on a Saturday and _their_ apartment is big and vaguely intimidating and theirs.

“Welcome home, Jones,” Emma mutters when their friends are gone and the boxes stay unpacked for nearly a week because they both have workouts to get to and rosters to organize and by the time they get home, they’re too busy falling down to care about much else.

They fall down next to each other every single time.

It takes two more seasons before the other programs start knocking – or calling – as it were and they both have offers and they both make sacrifices and there are more rosters and more kids and more careers to help spark and titles to run towards.

They do a lot of running.

Until it stops and the offers, somehow, time up and they’re in Providence and there’s a view of the water from their apartment and biographies on the athletic site that include very similar words. Elsa writes a story about them. It leads SportsCenter when they both find themselves competing for a national title on back-to-back weekends, pacing in the stands of each other’s games and cheering when they both pose with trophies.

And eventually their biographies get a few more matching words.

_A native of Wilmington, North Carolina, Killian Jones is married to Emma Swan, a former All-American who currently serves as the head coach of the Friar’s women’s lacrosse team. The couple resides in the Providence area._

_A native of Boston, Massachusetts, Emma Swan is married to Killian Jones, a former national champion who currently serves as the head coach of the Friar’s men’s lacrosse team. The couple resides in the Providence area._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part of the inexplicable lacrosse version of She's the Man that consumed my life for a day and a half.
> 
> As always, come flail with me on the Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	6. Contact Light, Part 1

She was going to murder him.

Or strangle him.

Which was kind of on the way to murdering him.

Semantics or whatever.

She hadn’t felt that way in a long time, actual years, and she wasn’t sure if her current murder-like tendencies were because of the smirk on his face or the way his eyes seemed to follow her around the apartment or because she just wanted to make out with him for the rest of the day.

Probably the last one. _Definitely_ the last one.

It still caught her off guard sometimes.  

And really at the beginning she would have punched him square in the jaw if he’d even suggested it, but he also probably would have laughed at the idea of _it_ and that probably should have a been a sign.

Something about _inevitable_ or some other word that Emma absolutely did not believe in because this was the real world and not...a Lifetime movie. Although maybe it was if she murdered Killian. There always seemed to be a lot of murder-type plotting in Lifetime movies.  

And baby stealing.

She absolutely wasn’t stealing anyone’s baby. Except maybe Ruth Jones who was so goddamn adorable it sometimes hurt to look at her. No. Emma wasn’t stealing a baby.

And she wasn’t going to murder Killian. This was not a Lifetime movie. This was...probably a Hallmark movie or a made-for-Netflix special with lots of sentiment and feelings and _lessons learned_. Emma absolutely refused to learn any lessons.

“It’s going to be fine, Swan,” Killian promised, the sentiment falling out of his mouth seemingly every other minute and she kept pacing in the middle of her living room.

He caught her around the wrist, pulling her up short and eyeing her with the kind of meaning that didn’t belong in _this_ because there was no name to _this_ , it just was and now it was going to exist in the same city for the first time ever and, maybe, exist in front of her brother.

“We have to follow the rules,” Emma said again. She’d written them down. She made Killian put them in his wallet. “To the letter. For real.”  
  
“I’ve understood the other twenty times you’ve told me already, love. Trust me, I’ve got it.”  
  
She wasn’t sure she believed him. Or, rather, she wasn’t sure she believed herself because he’d come to Portland for _her_ , but no one else knew that and no one else _could_ know that because David might have an actual aneurysm if he found out his little sister and his best friend had been doing...whatever –  _everything_ – right under his nose for the better part of the last two years.

“Yeah?” Emma asked, hating how nervous her voice sounded and how Killian blinked twice before he answered.

“Yeah,” he nodded. She sighed, sagging forward slightly, but she didn’t argue when he tugged her back towards the couch, tucking her against his side and kissing the top of her hair. “Nothing’s going to go wrong, Swan. We just need to...stand at least six feet away from each other at all times. And then we tell your brother and we let the chips fall where they may.”  
  
Emma laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it, pressing her face against the button up he had on and it was a _fancy event_ or so David explained when he sent out the group-wide e-mail invitations a week before and Killian had spent the majority of the night making of fun of that.

“You need to be less attractive,” she accused. “It’s frustrating.”  
  
“I’ll work on it. In the meantime. Six feet and no trying to make out in that one corner of the apartment that’s almost invisible from the rest of the living room if you’re standing the right way.”

“You’re making this difficult already.”  
  
“I’m just saying.”

“I know you are. And I’m just saying that there are rules and expectations and we can’t make out in that corner you can barely see because of the weird layout in their apartment and…”  
  
He cut her off. With his mouth.

And really that was how this had all started and how it continued and, eventually, evolved into something that Emma hoped, one day, to tell the whole goddamn world about.

She was the most stubborn person in the entire history of the entire universe though and then several others because Killian, naturally, refused to accept the possibility of singular universes and one reality and she’d watched Cosmos something, like, eight-hundred times.

It freaked her out.

“Space is just so...big,” Emma said, what felt like a million and two years ago sitting on a couch in an apartment that wasn’t hers just off campus of a college she didn’t go to and wasn’t, technically, supposed to be visiting. Her brother wasn’t there.

Her brother was visiting Mary Margaret in Williamstown. For the entire weekend. And Emma was in upstate New York, with her feet draped over Killian’s legs and she wasn’t sure who suggested she drive up, but she did and he kept making her watch shows about space.

Killian quirked an eyebrow at her, glancing up over the top of the bottle in his hand and it was stupid and absolutely playing unfair because she was totally freaked out by even the concept of space and he knew it. “I think that’s kind of the general idea, yes, Swan,” he drawled, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth.

She wanted to smack it off. Or kiss it off. It was an oddly similar feeling.

“Who came up with that idea?” she challenged and the smile was a full-blown grin or smirk and for someone who was vaguely terrified of space she certainly had a lot of questions about it. “Like...who just decided space was big? And we’re just bouncing around in it?”  
  
“We’re not bouncing anywhere, love. That’s how gravity works.”  
  
“Well, that’s stupid.”  
  
“Take it up with Sir Isaac Newton, not me.”

Emma grumbled under her breath, twisting her lips into something that was almost a scowl, but might have just been the visual representation of how much she _fucking_ hated space. “You didn’t answer my question, though.”  
  
“To be perfectly honest, Swan, I’m a bit a loss as to what the question really is. You’re just mumbling insults about Sir Isaac Newton.”  
  
“Well, what did he ever do anyway?”  
  
“Gravity, we just did this. And an object in motion stays in motion. And proved that we weren’t at the center of the universe after all, it was the Sun. I’m sure Galileo was very excited to hear the news.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes and he was teasing her and that might have been Killian Jones’ favorite activity. Second only to forcing her to watch documentaries about space.

She had no idea there were so many space documentaries until she started letting Killian force space documentaries at her.

And maybe, well, maybe it wasn’t nearly as much of a battle as Emma liked to pretend it was.

He’d always kind of been there, not quite in the middle of her life, but far from the edge of it – friends with David and always teasing her even when she threatened to punch him in the face.

He’d laugh and do that stupid _tongue thing_ that Emma absolutely, positively _never_ thought about and the blue in his eyes would get bluer somehow and he’d lean towards her and mumble _take your best shot, Swan_ in her ear.

She’d swat at his arm.

He’d laugh some more.

And he was always there. Killian was David’s best man when he, finally, married Mary Margaret and he looked unfairly good in a tux and with a glass of champagne in his hand, waxing poetic about friendship and romance and _life together_ and Emma didn’t think about either.

Of course not.

Killian was her brother’s best friend.

She’d known him since he was sixteen and had just moved to Storybrooke with his mother and Liam was already gone – enlisted just after college, but he sent checks home and postcards from ports with palm trees and different words for different stars in different hemispheres and when all of those things stop coming and a uniformed officer showed up on the steps of the Jones house, Emma was the one who held onto Killian until he stopped crying.

“Your shirt’s a disaster,” he mumbled into her shoulder and she couldn't really laugh, throat too scratchy and eyes too red and her left arm had gone numb from Killian’s weight resting on her side. She didn’t say that.

“That’s alright,” Emma promised and it was.

It was alright.

It was easy.

Emma stopped hating him at some point and started texting him and he answered and then started texting her and she responded in, like, point five seconds.

Easy. Totally.

He was there and she was there and he’d tease and she’d threaten and everyone kept telling them it was _only a matter of time_ like that was something that was even remotely normal.

It wasn’t.

_A matter of time_ was not easy and they were...easy. They were acquaintances who were forced to dance together at David and Mary Margaret’s wedding and pose together and both of those things were a lie because there were photos of Emma wearing Killian’s tuxedo jacket just outside the reception hall with another glass of champagne in her hand and maybe she kept it on her phone.

She was smiling in the picture, calm and easy and he was leaning towards her with his hand halfway to her hip like he _wanted_ , but couldn’t quite rationalize it and she’d clearly spent far too much time listening to Mary Margaret and even more time listening to Ruby because Emma kind of wanted too, but she absolutely did not say that out loud because they were not a movie.

Hallmark or Lifetime or whatever.

_Whatever._

“Nothing happened?” Ruby asked for what felt like the eight-hundredth time and Emma resisted the urge to slide down the booth in the coffee shop they’d been going to for actual years. “Like...really, nothing?”  
  
Emma shook her head and Ruby let out a sigh that was far too distraught for how absolutely not involved she was in the situation. “I don’t know how many more times I can tell you the same thing, Rubes,” she muttered.

Ruby sighed again. Belle tried to smile. It didn’t really work.

“But, like...really, nothing?” Belle asked. Emma might have actually growled. “I’m just saying, you know, it’d make sense. And something happening at a wedding where you both look absurdly good in black tie type clothing and were, you know, maybe a little not quite sober...You guys have known each other forever and it’s…”  
  
“No.”  
  
“But...”  
  
“No,” Emma repeated and the word felt heavy on her tongue. It felt like a lie. “We...I mean we danced that one time, but that was…

“True love,” Ruby shouted, drawing a handful of stares from people just trying to enjoy lattes and overpriced scones. She glared at a table full of college kids, heads practically flying off their shoulders at the sudden noise. “Well, it was,” she muttered. “They’re...you don’t get it. They’re in love. You’ll understand some day.”

Belle held up her hands in mock-surrender, shaking her head quickly, like that would slow down the attack and Emma nearly knocked over her coffee.

Or threw it at Ruby, who, at some point, transitioned from dramatic sighs to disappointed laughter and both of them were equally annoying to an Emma who was doing her best to ignore the inevitable.

“We’re not suggesting that,” Belle said. “No one is suggesting that. We’re just saying we would understand if something did happen and maybe, eventually led to something of the true-type variety. At some point. In the distant future.”

Emma kept looking at that picture.

She looked really happy in that picture. She wondered what Killian’s hand would feel like on her waist. And...stop it.

That wasn’t easy.

Her phone buzzed on the table, like it was trying to prove a point and Ruby nearly cackled, head thrown back and Emma was going to bite her lip in half.  

“Shut up, Emma grumbled. “I’m not...you all need to find a hobby or something.”  
  
Ruby stopped laughing long enough to shrug and glance in Belle’s direction, something very specific passing between them. They’d talked about this. They’d planned. They’d plotted. God damn. Emma tried to remember all the reasons she couldn’t throw coffee at her friends.

“Give us, like, six months and we’ll start asking when Mary Margaret and David are going to move out of that tiny, little loft and buy a great, big gorgeous house with an enormous backyard,” Ruby said. “Then we won’t be concerned about why you haven't started making out with Jones at every conceivable moment.”

“Not every conceivable moment,” Belle corrected, waving her hands again and Emma’s lip was bleeding. “That’s just unreasonable.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, that’s the only thing that’s unreasonable,” Emma hissed. Her phone buzzed again. And Ruby’s eyes were going to fall out of her head.

**I’ve run out of wedding leftovers.**

**Swan, are you ignoring me?**

_I have a life. I am not at your text message beck and call._

**Is this your not so subtle way of telling me that I’m bothering you, love?**

_Stop it._

**What?**  
_  
You know what._

**I promise, love, I absolutely do not. What’s got you so busy with life things, then? You can’t be with David and Mary Margaret. They’re far too busy standing in the ocean.**

_Yeah...I don’t think that’s what they’re doing on their honeymoon._

He sent her back a string of emojis that didn’t really make sense, but still managed to get his point across and Emma was far too busy being vaguely charmed by the whole thing to notice whatever Ruby and Belle’s faces were doing.

**That’s disgusting, Swan. I don’t want to think about that.**

_You brought it up._

**I don’t care. Where are you?**

Ruby coughed pointedly and Emma’s phone crashed back on the table, drawing a hiss of air out of Belle because only Belle would be worried about the state of Emma’s phone when her heart was threatening to hammer its way out of her chest.

“What?” Emma snapped and Ruby’s smile looked almost predatory. “God what could you possibly be grinning about?”

“Nothing,” Ruby said, shaking her head slowly as she slung an arm over Belle’s shoulders. “I have no thoughts about this whatsoever. C’mon, babe, let’s go find a hobby.”

They were gone a moment later, leaving Emma alone at a booth with just the stares of some very confused co-eds to keep her company. She sighed, grabbing her half-finished cup of coffee and downing the lukewarm liquid before she could think too much about how she hated lukewarm coffee and she texted back as soon as she stepped onto the sidewalk outside.

She _called_ when she got home four hours later to find that her internet had just…”stopped working,” Emma sighed, staring at the phone screen in her hand and Killian widened his eyes.

It was not the first time she’d said that.

“So you’ve told me, Swan,” Killian grinned, running a hand through his hair and she didn’t even try to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “You’ve got to restart your router.”  
  
“I did that.”  
  
“We’ve been sitting here for nearly forty-five minutes love, I promise, you have not restarted your router yet.”

She ignored the endearment and whatever it did to her stomach and whatever Ruby would say about _that,_ huffing out an exhale instead. Killian laughed at her. “Then what have we been doing?” Emma demanded, trying without much luck to slide across her floor back to whatever he promised was a router.

“Mostly just you yelling at me. Loudly.”

“That’s because you’re not helping. At all. I call in my time of need and you just sit there doing that stupid eyebrow thing and don’t help at all and…” She ran out of air. “What am I supposed to be doing with the router?”  
  
Killian tilted his head, the ends of his mouth ticking up and he was hours away, but David and Mary Margaret were somewhere doing something that absolutely was not standing in the ocean and Emma didn’t know who else to call.

She didn’t really think about calling anyone else.

“Stupid eyebrow thing,” Killian echoed, pausing between every word for dramatic effect. “Tell me something, Swan, what exactly is a stupid eyebrow thing?”  
  
“That’s not the point of this phone call! You’re an engineer! Engineer this!”

He did the eyebrow thing again. Emma fell back on the ground, holding her phone above her head and it couldn’t have been a very good angle, hair splayed out under her and bags under her eyes because she’d spent the last four nights trailing some skip and trying not to fall asleep in her car and Killian knew all about that too.

He made her text him when she got home.

“A civil engineer, Swan,” he corrected and she made a noise in the back of her throat that wasn’t particularly adult. She wanted her internet to work. She wanted to stream...something...anything, maybe even that one space show that made her fall asleep like some kind of Pavlovian experiment because she really, really wanted to sleep. Just, like, for days. “I’m not programming anything, love.”  
  
“Just building ships,” Emma muttered, closing her eyes lightly. She heard him laugh. And could picture exactly what his face looked like – eyes probably just a bit too bright and smile just a bit too enthusiastic and she wished he wasn’t several hours away.

She’d watch whatever space thing he wanted.

She’d fall asleep, but she’d watch, at least, five minutes.

“That’s not really true either, love,” Killian said softly. Her eyes snapped back open.

It wasn’t.

He’d gone to school on as many scholarships as he could apply for – Liam was gone and his mom was...not great, sick and getting sicker and the only option was government funding and a ridiculous amount of loans he was only just starting to pay off and every scholarship application he could find.

Emma knew. She helped him fill them out.

It was exhausting. She still complained about tendonitis in her wrist and Killian promised _that’s not a thing, love_ and then, usually, twisted his own wrist as if to prove his point.

It worked, though, he got into school and graduated manga cum laude because, of course, he did and David sat next to him and Emma cheered from the back row reserved for friends or family and she was pretty certain she was both for both graduates.  
  
Mary Margaret cried.

It worked and Killian got a job because, of course he got a job, he was smart and talented and a slew of other adjectives that would probably just serve to further Ruby and Belle’s cause.

Structural analysis.

On ships. To make sure nothing went wrong. The way it had with Liam. No one talked about that. Emma knew.

Killian left Portland and he went to Boston and he fixed things and Emma missed him. More than she was ever willing to admit out loud. Or...to herself.

“Yeah, I know,” she said and his eyes lost some of that distant look that always seemed to sound like warning bells in the back of her mind. “But I feel like you should be able to will this to work anyway. Just mind meld it or something.”  
  
Killian scoffed and they were back to normal, whatever normal was for them and it might have just been this. “That doesn’t even make sense, Swan,” he sighed, rolling his eyes for good measure. She shrugged. “Did you find the paperclip? You can’t hit the button with anything thicker than a paper clip.”  
  
They went on like that for another forty-five minutes and there were more dramatic sighs, on both sides of the FaceTime call that was probably destroying her data because she still couldn’t connect to her wifi and the whole thing dissolved into muttered insults under their breath and faces that grown adults who, just a few days ago had danced in black-tie outfits, shouldn’t have made and Emma threw her phone across the room when her battery died.

“Ah, shit,” Emma sighed, pushing herself off the ground to grab her phone and the screen still wasn’t cracked. It started buzzing as soon as she connected it to the USB cord hanging off the side of her laptop.

**Did you just hang up on me?**

_My phone died. Because this is taking several lifetimes to fix._

**Yeah, I don’t think you can just restart your router anymore. There’s something wrong with your wiring or something.**

_And you’ve only just now figured that out?_  
  
**I’m not actually there, Swan. I’m trying to hypothesize based solely off your descriptions, which leave quite a bit to be desired, and an admittedly shitty FaceTime connection.**

_That’s rude._

She swiped her thumb across the screen, hitting the first name on her recently called list and ignoring the tiny, little _seven_ in parenthesis next to it and she really called him all the time. He answered before the first ring had even finished ringing.

“Go to sleep,” Emma said, but it sounded more like a command and it was late and they were never going to fix this. God, she’d have to read a book or something. And call the internet people the next morning.

Killian laughed. “Swan, you called me. And you’re the one who’s gotten something like four hours of sleep in the last week.”  
  
“It’s more than that and you know it. Plus with my crappy internet, I’ll probably get to REM way before I normally do because of some scientific study I’m not willing to acknowledge in any other situation except this very specific one.”  
  
“See, you’re saying words, but I don’t think you’re realizing that they’re not making sense in that specific order. Also it is nine o’clock at night. I don’t know what kind of sleep schedule you think I have, but it’s definitely incorrect.”  
  
Emma’s shoulders sagged and she was back on the floor, leaning against the front of her couch with one leg awkwardly thrown out in front of her. “Something about the brain being active while it can still hear noise,” she mumbled. “The millennials or whatever.”  
  
“Or whatever,” Killian grinned. She assumed he grinned. She _knew_ he did. “And maybe it’ll fix itself overnight somehow.”  
  
“You know that won’t work.”  
  
“Yeah, I do."

"You really should go to sleep,” Emma said. “It’s late and you’ve got that huge presentation thing in two days and you’ve got to do experiments.”  
  
“Analytical methods,” he corrected softly and her eyes were already starting to close again. She climbed onto the couch, propping her neck up on the arm and she’d probably regret that in the morning, but it was almost comfortable then and she didn’t want to move.

She didn’t want to hang up the phone.

God, she was going to kill Ruby.

“Evaluating logistical operations,” she mumbled, voice starting to slur. It was a good thing she caught the guy already. She’d never have lasted another day in the field.

It sounded like Killian smiled again. “I knew you were listening, love,” he said softly.

“Sometimes.”  
  
“That’s enough.”

Emma must have fallen asleep at some point because she nearly fell off the couch when she woke up, a knock on her door and her phone was dead again and maybe being thrown around most of downtown Portland that afternoon had actually done more damage than she originally thought.

There was another knock and Emma stared at the door like it was a portal to another dimension or a wormhole – which absolutely freaked her out more than space when she learned about them while being forced into a multi-city viewing party of some new hour-long special on Netflix two weeks before.

“It’s just me, Swan,” Killian called, a soft thud on the other side of the door when he, presumably, fell against it. Emma wasn’t sure she was awake. “Did your phone die again?”

She blinked twice, licking her lips and wrapping a blanket she’d kicked off at some point around her shoulders as she padded across her living room.

Killian was standing on the other side of the doorway, a knowing smile on his face and jeans that were just absolutely unfair. He held his phone up, waving it in her face and he laughed when Emma swatted at his wrist. “Is it dead?” he asked.

“Why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?” Emma countered, falling back into banter easily. He was wearing sandals.

She’d never seen him wear sandals in his entire life.

“It’s polite,” Killian reasoned. He did the _eyebrow thing_ again, taking a step forward until Emma didn’t have any option except to move and she gasped when she nearly tripped over her own blanket.

His hand fell on her hip.

“Try not to die on me, love,” he muttered, flashing her a grin and her mind was racing, trying to sprint to Boston and back to Portland and she’d never resented the shitty battery tendencies of iPhones more in her life. “Where’s your router?”

Emma blinked. He hadn’t moved his hand. “What?”

“The router. Or just...all of your internet connectivity.”  
  
“I thought we decided it was broken. You said my descriptions left a lot to be desired. I’m going to call the internet person tomorrow.”  
  
“The fact that you’re referring to them as internet person gives me pause.”  
  
Killian squeezed his hand and grinned, moving around Emma when her legs, just, decided to stop working. She was frozen in the middle of her own living room with mascara smudged under her eyes and a blanket hanging off only one shoulder. “What…” she stammered. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to go?”  
  
He didn’t answer, already crouching on the side of her TV stand and clearly focused – the way he got when he was trying to figure something out and Emma barely gave herself a moment to consider how she knew _that_ before her legs decided to, suddenly, work again.

She felt like she was sprinting towards him.

And he’d never been in her apartment before.

He stayed in hotels or with David and Mary Margaret when he came to Portland and he came to Portland less and less recently, building some sort of name for himself in Boston. Literally.

“Killian,” Emma said, resting her hand on his shoulder. He flinched. “How did you know where to go? Why did you even try to go?”  
  
“We really need to work on your sentence structure, Swan.”  
  
“You are avoiding my question.”  
  
He glanced over his shoulder, four different colored wires clutched in one hand. “I’m trying to save face,” he admitted, shaking a piece of hair away from his forehead. It didn’t work. Emma sat down next to him. On the floor. “And I asked Belle. Who was then sworn to secrecy because I don’t want to hear anything from Lucas about any of this.”  
  
“This?”

“You caught the guy yesterday, right?” Emma nodded slowly, still not entirely sure she understood where all of this was going or if she was even awake. “So you’ve got two days left on your mandatory recovery period and I can’t imagine what you’re going to do without internet over those forty-eight hours.”

“You’ve got a presentation in two days. There are powerpoint slides and charts to print out and laminate. You don’t have time to be fixing my internet.”  
  
“No one is laminated anything, Swan. It’s not 1995. And I have an assistant for all of those things. This is, well, I can fix this. I just needed to do it in person because your 4G is more like 2G and at some point in the next two hours we should figure out if you can upgrade your phone too because that can’t be safe.”

She was absolutely dreaming. “I don’t....you don’t have to play internet white knight for me.”  
  
Killian’s eyes flashed up towards hers and then, maybe, away from hers and, possibly, towards her lips and it was jarring. It was...like the Earth stopped rotating on its axis for a few moments and then started turning the wrong way.

She knew all about the Earth’s rotation.

“I’m not,” he promised. “I just...it wasn’t that late.”  
  
“You live two hours away.”  
  
“Eh, an hour and forty-five without traffic.”  
  
“That seems like pulling at straws,” Emma argued and that’s exactly what it was, an argument and a lifetime’s worth of everyone promising _eventually_ and _inevitable_ and she probably moved first. She’d argue that point as well though.

He made some kind of absurd sound when she all but launched herself towards him, throwing his hand back to make sure they didn’t crash onto the floor and his other hand found its way underneath her shirt and they _both_ groaned when one of them moved their hips.

Emma twisted, trying to get some kind of leverage and it just ended with her straddling him in the middle of her living room, knees on either side of Killian’s hips with her fingers anchored in his hair. She pulled back, not entirely sure what she was doing or what he was doing, but he didn’t look nervous. He looked absolutely certain.

And that was enough.

She definitely kissed him first that time, ducking her head and slanting her lips across his and that thing with his tongue should be absolutely illegal when he was using it on other human beings.

Or just her.

She just wanted him to use it on her.

She didn’t say that out loud.

She kept kissing him.

“This is not fixing the internet, Swan,” Killian mumbled, but she could hear the laugh just on the edge of his voice. She was half a second away from arguing the distinct lack of kissing until the kissing moved to her neck and behind her ear and over her collarbone and she’d lost all control of her body when her hips practically bucked against him.

It worked another groan out of him that she’d probably think about twenty-six times a day.

“I’m sorry, were those actually words?” Emma asked, grinning against his jaw and her shirt was a lost cause, twisted up between them and halfway up her stomach.

They were still on the floor.

“Are you actually making fun of me right now?” Killian countered. He pulled back to gape at her, but Emma couldn't quite focus on that when his pupils were blown wide and his shoulders were moving a bit than usual. “Currently, Swan?”

“Seems pretty par for the course, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Not when I’m actively trying to undress you.”  
  
“Is that what you were trying to do? You’re being awfully subtle then, don’t you think?”

She appreciated his wide eyes more than she should have, but she didn’t have long to linger on that particular look or how it looked on Killian when his hand was still under the hem of her shirt, before his mouth crashed against hers and she was dimly aware of him trying to stand up.

“What are you doing?” Emma laughed, yelping when he finally managed to get a bit of momentum under them and her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. “God, calm down with your feats of strength.”

Killian grunted slightly and she was fairly certain it was because of her knee and its placement in what might have actually been his spleen. “Was this part not obvious?” he asked and she pushed her face into his shoulder when she started to laugh. “Fucking hell, Swan, you can’t do that. That is...distracting.”  
  
“Distracting from what? Are we not talking about the same thing here?”

“Swan.”  
  
“I”m serious.”

“I know you are, love,” Killian said, kissing across her cheek and back towards her mouth. He pulled away before she could kiss back. She nearly punched him.

They were moving, though, stumbling slightly down the tiny hallway in her tiny apartment towards her tiny bedroom and Emma made some kind of absurd noise when she fell back on the mattress. “Did you just dump me on the bed?” she asked, but she wasn’t sure Killian heard her when his eyes traced down her body and landed on the bit of skin where her shirt had ridden up again.

Emma pushed up on her elbows, lifting her eyebrows and trying to fight off the _feeling_ in the pit of her stomach. She saw the muscles in Killian’s throat move when he swallowed. “Still with me?” she asked and it felt like a very big question.

“Yeah,” he breathed. He took a step towards her, kicking his sandals off and he hadn’t even taken his goddamn sandals off. Fuck. “I’m...good.”

“Ok, good.” It was, easily, the lamest thing she’d ever said. Killian didn’t seem to mind. “You need to take this off,” she muttered, tugging on the bottom of his shirt. “And if you scuffed up my baseboards I’m going to kill you.”  
  
“We really need to work on this whole swooning thing, Swan. First you’re not sure if I’m trying to undress you and now you’re talking about baseboards. It’s almost insulting.”  
  
“Yeah, that seems like a you problem.”

He flashed her look – amusement lingering on the edge of his gaze, but with something else that made her whole body feel as if it were melting into the mattress and she didn’t say another word when his fingers found their way underneath the shorts she had on.

Their clothes ended up in some kind of pile on either side of her bed, kicking at blankets and knocking off pillows and trying to avoid the lamp on the night stand next to Emma’s head. “You’ve got to…” she started. “That drawer.”

He stared at her for half a moment – which she’d eventually come to consider one hell of a confidence boost – and Emma rolled her head on the one pillow that hadn’t landed on the floor. “The drawer,” she repeated and he understood that time.

“Right, right, right,” Killian stammered, trying not to fall on top of her when he tried to move as quick as light or some kind of meteor and she needed to stop making space jokes in her head. “Good, yeah, that’s...responsible.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s definitely good for the mood.”  
  
He rolled his eyes at her, pausing quick enough to kiss the edge of her mouth and she smacked at his arm when he chuckled as soon as she tried to chase after him. “I’m not going anywhere, Swan.”

And it was like something settled or maybe she just caught her breath, but Emma didn’t care about the specifics of it because he was there and he’d always kind of been there and she’d watched so many goddamn space documentaries.

It wasn’t exactly _good_ at first, a weird rhythm they were both trying to dictate or find and there was far too much sighing for it to be anything except frustrating for the first few minutes.

Until it was suddenly...the opposite of that.

It was good and great and a slew of other words and adjectives Emma would come up with if she weren’t too busy chasing friction and that tongue thing and trying to take a deep breath. He was everywhere all at once, hands moving and hips moving and she shifted against him, trailing her fingers down his spine until he hissed softly in her ear, mumbling her name over and over again as if he couldn’t remember anything else.

Emma kissed him as soon as she felt tension coiling at the base of her spine, fingers back in his hair and she couldn’t seem to stop touching his hair. She squeezed her eyes closed at some point, fairly certain several different stars exploded just on the edge of her vision and it was another goddamn space pun.

Killian didn’t leave.

Emma didn’t ask him to leave or tell him to stay. He just didn’t move. And neither did she, curled against his side with her head on his shoulder and her arm flung over his waist.

He texted her a photo of the charts two days later.

It went from there.

She visited and he visited and there wasn’t much of a schedule, just phone calls and FaceTime and one hour and forty-five minutes, without traffic, and they didn’t spend much time worrying about definitions when they were so busy kissing the goddamn daylights out of each other.

Killian was impossibly good at kissing.

And, Emma liked to imagine, he felt the same way because he’d barely stepped into her apartment, six months after that first step, before his mouth landed on hers and his fingers danced along her spine and it was absolutely a confidence boost.

“We don’t have time for this,” Emma mumbled, but the words seemed to get stuck halfway out of her mouth and maybe they could make time.

So they were celebrating Ruby and Belle and an engagement and Killian had taken Friday off so he could get there before five o’clock, but all of those things seemed to fall by the metaphorical wayside when Emma’s arms found their way over his shoulders, like she was trying to make sure he was actually there.

And maybe she missed him when he wasn’t there or she wasn’t there, but that wasn’t part of the plan and no one had actually ever used the phrase _just sex_ , but that was definitely what it was. Right? Sure.

No, of course it was.

They were….getting it out of their systems. For six months. With alternating weekends and dinners that sometimes felt a hell of a lot like dates and nothing had really changed, there was just a lot more kissing and a lot less clothing.

Killian hadn’t really ever stopped kissing her, just pulled away from her lips and moved towards her jaw and that one spot on her neck that made her whole body break out in goosebumps and he always seemed very pleased with himself whenever it happened.

It happened every single time.

That didn’t mean anything. At all.

“We can be a little late,” Killian argued and for half a second Emma was ready to agree, to just tug him back into her apartment and, possibly, bolt the door, but then her phone started to ring and there was a schedule and he wasn’t supposed to be there.

He was supposed to be staying in a hotel – had told David he just _wanted a little more space_ when he had to explain why he didn’t want to stay in the guest room of the house they’d actually bought two months ago – and showing up twenty minutes late, _together_ , would probably send Ruby into some sort of crazed _I knew it_ fit.

She felt like she’d run into a brick wall, slamming into something she wasn’t entirely aware was there until it reached out and hit in the face and it was painful and jarring and Emma suddenly realized she wanted to be late to this stupid, forced friendship interaction because she wanted Killian to stay in her apartment without a story or an explanation and it was the single most terrifying thing she’d ever thought.

She didn’t...well, he knew about Neal and she knew about Milah and that was part of the reason she’d argued against _inevitable_ for so long. Emma didn’t do relationships. It didn’t work, wasn’t in the cards or the stars, _jeez_ , but she couldn't seem to stop kissing her brother’s best friend and there wasn’t enough oxygen in the world for the deep breath she was trying to take.

Emma shook her head, pulling back slightly and it was as if she could see the understanding settle on Killian’s face, the way his eyes dimmed just a bit and she swore something landed in the pit of her stomach.

It felt a hell of a lot like regret.

She wasn’t sure what there was to regret. And that was a great, big enormous lie.

“I just…” Emma started, but words were, suddenly, rather difficult to come by. Killian didn’t say anything, just lifted his eyebrows and waited and he was always doing that. He waited on her. “Maybe we should just, you know, take a deep breath.”  
  
His eyebrows didn’t move, but he blinked twice and his hand sounded like an anvil when it pulled away from her, crashing against his thigh and Emma tried to keep staring straight ahead.

She couldn’t.

God fucking damnit.

“A deep breath,” Killian echoed and it sounded a bit like a question and a lot like disbelief and they should have done this at any other time. “And what does that mean exactly, love?”  
  
She shook her head again, mostly because she couldn’t come up with anything else to do and she’d lost control of the situation and all of her body parts. “I mean...we’ve been….it’s not…”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
“God, stop repeating me!”  
  
“I”m trying to make sense of what you're saying, Swan,” Killian sighed, taking a step back into her space and his hand moved again, thumb brushing across the curve of her cheek like he couldn’t stop himself. “This isn’t…” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together tightly and Emma tried not to punch him. They were both horrible at finishing sentences. “Is that about what your brother will think?”  
  
“No,” Emma yelled. Killian scoffed. “Well, no, not entirely! You can't tell me that you haven’t thought about it.”  
  
“I’ve thought about several different things, love and strangely enough none of the things I think about you have anything to do with David.”  
  
“That’s insane.”  
  
“It’s insane that I haven’t considered your brother’s opinion when I think about us? How is that insane? I couldn’t care less about what David thinks. Or anyone for that matter. It wouldn’t make a difference.”

She was positive the people on the sidewalk twenty-seven blocks away could hear her heart hammering against her rib cage and Emma still didn’t know much about gravity, but she was fairly positive it had just altered when Killian’s words seemed to land at her feet. “There is no us,” Emma muttered, staring at her feet and she’d never put socks on because he’d shown up early at her apartment to make out with her.

And make proclamations.

That she was absolutely going to ignore.

God, she was an idiot.

Emma tried to pull the air in through her nose, memories of some kind of breathing exercise Mary Margaret taught her when she was freaking out about finals sophomore year, but it didn’t work and Killian took a step back. She hadn’t noticed the bag sitting in her doorway still.

“What?” he asked softly. “Emma, I….”  
  
She was positive her head had never moved so quickly in her entire life because she couldn't remember a single time in the history of the entire _fucking_ universe that he’d called her by her actual name.

And if she were being honest with herself, she probably would have realized he’d been calling her _love_ more than anything else.

She was not being honest with herself.

“C’mon, let’s be honest, this is, I mean this was….” Emma stumbled over the words, still not able to finish a goddamn sentence and Killian’s mouth was hanging open slightly, shoulders moving like he’d run to her apartment from Boston.

“This was what, Swan?”  
  
“A matter of time, right? That’s what they all said and we’d just eventually stumble into each other and then it’d be over. I mean this isn’t…”  
  
Killian’s mouth twisted, something that almost looked like a sneer settling on his face and Emma felt like she’d just fallen into the pile of snow outside her window. She lived on the fourth floor. “Right,” he said, crossing his arms tightly and she didn’t consider all the reasons he did that until far later. “Right. This isn’t, well, it isn’t, is it?”

“Those were a lot of words in an order I didn’t entirely understand.”  
  
He laughed, a sardonic edge to the sound that sent a chill down her spine. “Ok, well, it’s good I got here early then, huh? I’ll see you in a little while, Swan.”

Emma stood in her living room for what felt like several sunlit days after Killian closed the door behind him and she was ninety-nine percent positive she’d missed the entire engagement celebration by the time her feet managed to move, tugging on boots that felt far too tight and a scar that she was fairly positive was going to strangle her at some point and she was the last one to get to the bar.

“Hey,” Ruby cried as soon as Emma shook the snow out of her hair. She was wearing some kind of light-up headband and bright red lipstick and a smile that seemed to melt some of the ice in Emma’s heart.

She wasn’t just an idiot, she was a melodramatic idiot.

“You’re late,” Ruby continued, seemingly unaware of whatever Emma was trying to _deal_ with. “Jones is already like three shots in and I think he and David are doing some sort of unspoken challenge thing, but it’s probably going to be pretty entertaining and…”

She blinked when Emma didn’t immediately announce she was going to join in on shots and she barely had time to think about how well her friends knew her before Ruby was tugging her towards a corner and staring at her intently. “What’s going on with you?” she asked, tapping Emma’s shoulders the saw way she had when they first met at a cramped college bookstore, each trying to buy the same overpriced textbook.

They split it and shared it for the same class and it wasn’t the most conventional friendship, but Emma really believed Ruby could read her mind.

“Nothing,” Emma lied and Ruby didn’t even bother sighing. She laughed. “Honestly. I’m just...you know it’s been a long week.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“It has.”  
  
“Sure it has. When’s the last time you haven’t had a long week?”  
  
“Should I be offended by that?” Emma asked, trying to slink further back into the corner when she could feel the rest of the group shooting furtive, almost painfully obvious glances in their direction. Killian hadn’t moved.

Ruby shrugged. “You can do whatever you want. You’re an adult, in theory, but I’m just saying that, at some points in the last few months, you’ve been almost...good.”  
  
“Almost good.”  
  
“Ok, now you’re being rude,” Ruby muttered. “And it’s real obvious you’ve got a thing going on. So don’t bother lying. You just happen to have out-of-city stakeouts for weekends at a time? That’s not even clever, Emma.”  
  
“I have to work!”  
  
“Yuh huh. So how come during those weekends you’re less likely to answer your phone than you are during stakeouts downtown? Something doesn’t add up.”  
  
“You are not a detective,” Emma argued, defenses rising automatically and she wanted to get drunk and make out with Killian and she didn’t want him to stay in a hotel. Fucking hell.

Ruby made a noise in the affirmative and that wasn’t what Emma expected. “True,” she said. “But you know who is? Your great big, overprotective idiot of a brother, who is also very interested in what you’ve been doing on those weekends abroad.”  
  
“I’m not going overseas.”  
  
“A turn of phrase,” Ruby hissed. “God, keep up with my interesting banter. Did you screw it up? Is that what happened?”  
  
Emma made a face, holding her hands up and shaking her head, but Ruby didn’t look deterred. She just widened her stance and Emma didn’t have anywhere to run. “That was definitely rude,” she grumbled. “And, yeah, maybe.”  
  
“Maybe...definitely?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
“That’s dumb.”  
  
“That’s a pointed opinion from someone who just told me they thought I’ve been going abroad for weekends.”  
  
“Fucking a, Emma, that was a joke and you are doing a piss poor job of deflecting,” Ruby growled, an intensity in her voice that left Emma reeling. She was glad there was a wall to lean against. “Are you all in on this? Is that what’s going on? You freaking out?”  
  
“You’re not a journalist either,” Emma mumbled, but the questions were almost _too_ on point and she kept thinking about the way Killian’s voice shifted when he said her name.

God, he called her Emma.

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Another deflection. I’m going to assume that was a blanket yes, then.” Emma sighed, forcing the air out of her lungs like it had personally offended her and Ruby almost smiled when her whole body fell forward. “Ok, tell me one thing,” Ruby continued. “In this great, big secret of a whatever you’re doing, this guy, I’m assuming it’s a guy?”  
  
“It’s a guy,” Emma confirmed.

“You happy?”  
  
She considered that for a moment – memories flitting through her brain like she was watching them through a Viewfinder and it wasn’t just about the making out or the sex or _inevitable_ and she was so goddamn happy when she was with Killian.

It was easy.

“Yeah,” Emma whispered. She really needed a drink. “Really happy.”  
  
“Then stop being stupid about it and go tell Jones he’s real good at making out.” Emma nearly fell down the wall. Ruby cackled. “Please,” she laughed. “You think I don’t know things? I know things, Em. I’ve got sixty-two senses of knowing things. And I know he showed up at your apartment six months ago and you’ve only been going on these little excursions for the last couple of moths and he’s running through PTO like that’s his actual job.”  
  
“How could you possibly know that last part?”  
  
“Ariel told Belle who told me, obviously. Because we don’t have secrets.”  
  
“That was heavy-handed,” Emma sighed. “And I...I don’t know, Rubes, I...he’s David’s best friend. We weren’t really planning on this, it just kind of happened and, like, two hours ago I told him I didn’t think there was an _us_.”

Ruby made a noise that sounded a bit like a gag. “Oh my God, that’s so you it’s almost scripted. No wonder he’s been trying to drown himself.”  
  
“I didn’t….”

“Think,” Ruby finished. “Yeah, I get that. If there was an Olympic sport for shooting yourself in your own foot, you would win gold at the summer and winter games.”  
  
“How long have you been waiting to use that insult?”  
  
“Actual years. Listen, I know we’ve always been about how you guys should just, you know, whatever and get it over with, but this is, well, it’s obvious this is different. And Jones came in here looking like some kind of ghost person whose sole job in the afterlife was to test as much rum as possible. Even David realized something wrong and he’s the single most obtuse person on the planet.”  
  
Emma sighed. “I really fucked up.”  
  
“Oh, I know you did, but if science is sixty-two percent reactionary, then you’ve still got time to engineer a fix here.”  
  
“You’re on a roll.”  
  
Ruby’s eyes practically lit up. They nearly matched her headband. “I know, right! Even I’m impressed. It’s because I’m all in love and love will do that to you. And don’t bother saying heavy-handed, that wasn’t my best work. But what I’m saying, Em, is that he clearly cares and he has since forever ago. Although, you know, maybe don’t start making out here because I’m not entirely sure David won’t kill him.”

“You’re a beacon of support,” Emma said, but some of the ice in her spine had thawed and maybe that was what hope felt like.

Ruby clicked her tongue, shrugging slightly and possibly winking before announcing they were _all going to do shots_ and no one could argue with someone wearing a light-up headband.

And, really, Emma tried. She tried to talk or approach or whatever someone who, just a few hours ago, had promised her maybe-boyfriend that they were operating under labels, should do, but nothing worked and by the time six o’clock turned into one o’clock, she’d done a questionable number of shots and Killian had already left.

“Here,” Belle said, the words slurring just a bit and they’d probably put that bar in the black for the entire year just on their group’s alcohol consumption that night. She pushed a sheet of paper towards Emma and the letters weren’t quite perfect, but it was an address. To a hotel. A few blocks away. “It’s by the water,” Belle added, like Killian would stay anywhere that wasn’t by the water, and _everyone_ knew.

Except David.

God, Emma hoped David didn’t know.

“Thanks,” Emma mumbled, squeezing her fingers around the paper and waving towards a slightly wobbly David and a vaguely entertained Mary Margaret. “I’ll uh...I’ll see you guys later.”

“Text us when you get home,” David shouted, but she barely heard him, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder and she sprinted to the hotel. She nearly killed herself six times.

There was ice everywhere.

She was out of breath by the time she skidded to a stop in the hotel lobby, drawing a curious stare from the guy behind the desk. “Can I help you?” he asked cautiously, like she was going to rob the place.

“No, no, no,” Emma said, shaking her head and already moving towards the closest staircase. The piece of paper in her hand claimed he was staying on the ninth floor. “I, um...I’m fine, thanks.”

The guy didn’t look convinced and she didn’t blame him – she was far from fine and maybe just a little drunk and her legs were already protesting the idea of nine flights of stairs. She didn’t give herself a moment to consider that before she was climbing and trying to breathe and the romance of it all seemed to wane just a bit when she realized she was actually sweating.

“God fucking, shit, hell,” Emma breathed, trying not to pass out in an abandoned hotel hallway. The ink on the paper still clutched in her hands was starting to smear a bit, but she’d memorized the numbers on her sprint through downtown Portland and she could see the door just a few feet away like it was taunting her.

She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to knock.

She could hear footsteps behind the door, like he was pacing and her stomach clenched at the thought. She knocked. And the pacing stopped.

He didn’t say anything and that felt decidedly unfair, like the ball was in her court or something. She licked her lips before she knocked again. Still no answer. “God dammit,” she grumbled, resisting the urge to kick at the door too. “Killian, I...it’s me. Can you just open the door? For two seconds. And then I’ll…”  
  
Emma didn’t finish, nearly leaping back when the door swung open and he didn’t look drunk. He looked pissed off. “Hi,” she said softly and lamely and she didn’t know what else to say. She was having trouble breathing again. Killian crossed his arms again, narrowing his eyes slightly and Emma tried to swallow back the wad of actual emotion she could swear was lingering in the back of her throat. “I, um...Belle told me you were here.”  
  
One of his eyebrows moved. “Did you ask?”  
  
“No, I…” Emma shook her head and Killian sighed, uncrossing his arms to run one of his hands through his hair and this was not going according to plan. There was no plan. “I mean, I would have. I wanted to know where you went. I wanted to….apologize.”  
  
Killian stared at her, like he was taking stock of the words, or maybe just _Emma_ , and she wasn’t sure which one made her more nervous. And she realized rather quickly, he wasn’t going to say anything. He was going to let her talk.

Of fucking course he was.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Emma continued. “For, well, you know, being me and pushing with both hands and that’s just how I react when I want something too much. I’m so certain it’s all going to blow up in my face, some kind of fight or flight syndrome that should probably be studied at some point. And, really, it’s all stupid because I’m really happy and this is...it’s been good, right?”  
  
Killian nodded slowly, leaning against the open doorframe with his feet crossed at the ankles and Emma tried not to growl when he didn’t use actual words. “So I guess I’m just, well, I know I fucked it up, but I’d like to fix it or we could just...go back to before and you can send all the text messages you want and I’ll let you know I don’t die on stakeouts, but I can’t…”  
  
She huffed out a breath of air, blinking quickly when she realized she was on the edge of crying and this was absurd. He was distractingly good looking.

“You can’t what, love?” Killian asked, reaching out to rest his hand on her hip and Emma’s entire body felt like it exploded into flames.

“I can’t lose you.”  
  
His eyes widened slightly, but it didn’t take long for him to react, pulling her flush against him and they fit together so goddamn well and he was always so ridiculously warm and that tongue thing was absurd.

Emma sighed against him, pressing up on her toes to reach him better and they may have stood there for days or years or the rest of theirs lives. It didn’t matter.

She was all in. In some kind of decidedly overwhelming way that made her stomach flip and her pulse pick up and Killian laughed when he kissed _that_ spot.

“I’m not going anywhere, Emma,” he whispered and it was exactly what he’d told her the first time, with one very important distinction.

“Good,” Emma smiled, arms wrapped around his waist and face burrowed into his shoulder and she didn’t argue when he started walking them backwards into the room. “But, uh...maybe we don’t tell David just yet. I really think he’d kill you.”  
  
Killian barked out a laugh, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair. “Oh, no, he absolutely would. We’re good as is for now, right love?”

“Yeah. We are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was...Ok, so Killian is new in town and David is inviting him on his house for Thanksgiving where he meets Emma, David's sister, who also happens to be the one for who he moved into town in the first place, with a lot of kisses maybe secret dating or maybe it in start of their dating or whatever you feel like writing! Thanks.
> 
> This is...a little different, but mostly because it is, approximately, 800 million words. It's not, but it's close. Part two coming tomorrow because I have no self control at all. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	7. Contact Light, Part 2

It wasn’t a lie.

They were good, great, _fan-fucking-tastic_ for months and Emma had never really done long distance before, but it was working and she kept driving to Boston because Killian absolutely ran out of paid time off.

And he had ships to save and engineer and he’d tell her _that’s not how it works, Swan_ , but it didn’t matter because she kept teasing him if only to get him to make that one face, somewhere in between a smile and a smirk and, at some point in April, she just started thinking of it as hers in a decidedly possessive way that didn’t make her want to run.

It was a nice change of pace.

They still hadn’t told David, but that was neither here nor there because she kept driving to Boston and that picture from the wedding was now the lock screen on her phone and, long distance or not, it was still easy.

They were still them.

She was happy and it was good and, naturally, it all blew up in her goddamn face.

She’d been out the entire night before – some guy who skipped out on his bail and would probably get ten to fifteen for felony tax evasion now that he was back in the system – and she had three days of no work and no jail and no evading the law ahead of her and Emma wanted was to take a shower and make sure she remembered to bring socks before she drove to Boston later that afternoon.

Killian’s floors were, somehow, always freezing and she’d forgotten socks before and he claimed that was _just an excuse to stay in bed_ and she hadn’t really argued, but she also didn’t want to suffer from hypothermia for the next three days.

And, honestly, she should have known something was wrong. He hadn’t answered any of her text messages or questioned when she was leaving or updated her on the current state of Waze because he was some kind of not-so-secret traffic nerd.

But Emma was excited and happy and it was getting warm enough outside that maybe they could go Back Bay and come up with backstories for all the brownstones while eating cannolis.

_I want a cannoli. Like several cannolis. I think we should stage some kind of cannoli taste-testing event this weekend._

No answer.

_Are you opposed to the cannoli taste-testing event? Because that doesn’t seem very in character. I mean it doesn’t have to be that specific Italian pastry. Lobster tails are really good too. As long as there’s powdered sugar involved, I’m down_.

That was almost a softball – the chance to make plans and not-so-thinly-veiled innuendo and Emma furrowed her eyebrows when she stared at her phone and she couldn't remember where she put that package of socks she bought.

She nearly jumped out of her own skin when her phone started to ring in her hand and she didn’t look at the name, just swiped her thumb across the screen and pinned it to her ear with her shoulder so she could pack at the same time she tried to flirt.

“Hey,” she said, fishing through her closet for a plastic bag filled with ridiculously-patterned socks. “Do you remember where I said I put those socks because I honestly can’t remember what I did with them and I don’t want to freeze all weekend.”  
  
There wasn’t an answer. There was just something that sounded like a sniffle and Emma nearly dropped her phone when she tugged it away from her ear.

It wasn’t Killian.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret said and the sniffle got louder. Emma’s knees felt weak. It felt like she’d thrown open every window in her apartment and everything felt colder and wrong and she didn’t say anything. “Emma, are you still there?”  
  
She nodded slowly, barely even thinking about how Mary Margaret couldn’t see her and she should have been in class. It was one in the afternoon. “Yeah,” Emma mumbled, retreating back towards the edge of the bed. Her socks were underneath her night stand. “Yeah, I’m still here. Sorry, I, uh...I thought you were somebody else. What’s going on, M’s?”

It might have been an actual eternity before Mary Margaret answered and Emma tried to keep breathing and not start shouting, but she was mostly just trying not to get in her car and drive to Boston because she knew.

She already knew.

“Something…” Mary Margaret started and Emma’s knuckles turned white gripping the edge of her mattress. “Something happened.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“No,” Emma repeated. She didn’t remember standing up. Or tugging the blanket on the ground. She nearly tripped over it when she started to pace. “You’ve got to be more specific Mary Margaret, please.”

“I don’t know the specifics, but David’s already on his way to the hospital and they said it was bad and…”  
  
Emma stamped her foot. Alone. In her bedroom. With a bag of unopened socks. One of them had stars stitched on them. “Mary Margaret,” she shouted and she could almost hear the audible snap of a jaw on the other end. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer immediately and Emma had clearly lost all control of her mental and physical facilities because she couldn’t come up with another question and had, at some point, started crying.

_She already knew_.

“It...David said the hospital told him it was an accident,” Mary Margaret explained, voice soft and sniffles loud and Emma’s knees wouldn’t bend. She couldn’t bring herself to sit down. “He was out in the field and there’d been a mistake or a…”  
  
“Failure,” Emma finished and she knew all the terminology. “The word you’re looking for is failure.”

Mary Margaret made some kind of impossible noise and there were sounds in the background and she was still at school. Emma couldn't breathe. “Right, right,” Mary Margaret continued. “That’s, no, you’re right, that’s what David said. So he, uh...well, he was on the ship and there’d been a failure and there was flooding in the hull and they were starting to take on water and they were worried about the electrical circuiting or something and…”  
  
Emma sat on her floor. Her legs felt a bit like jello or jelly or some other gelatin substance and she was sitting cross-legged on her floor with a white-knuckle grip on her phone. “Electricity,” she repeated slowly. “Like a...like a shock?”  
  
Mary Margaret hummed. “Yeah, the hospital told David he lost consciousness for a while, a few minutes – “

“Minutes,” Emma shouted and Mary Margaret clicked her tongue in reproach.

“And,” she continued, seemingly hitting her stride the longer she kept mumbling facts. “There was some, well, it was a shock, literally, and I guess there was nerve damage in his hand and burns and it was….Emma, it was….it was bad.”  
  
She hadn’t actually said his name. And something in the back of Emma’s brain sparked at that, the realization that Mary Margaret called her, but didn’t bother actually saying Killian’s name, just knew she would know and she did.

_She already knew_.

“How bad is bad?” Emma asked softly and the tears were starting to make their way down her cheeks. “Like...bad?”  
  
“Bad,” Mary Margaret echoed. “They, um, they were prepping him for surgery when the hospital called David.”

It was irrational to be angry. It was _wrong_ to be angry, but she bought socks and had cannoli plans and Mary Margaret called Emma.

And she wanted to be in Boston already.

She’d never told Killian…

“Surgery for what?” Emma snapped, the words fitting together like some kind of puzzle in her head and the question felt pointless as soon as she asked.  
  
Mary Margaret sighed. “Emma, it’s bad and the doctor told David…”  
  
Emma jumped off the floor, punching at an enemy that wasn’t there and might have just been her own inability to tell her not-so-secret boyfriend that she loved him and wanted to be his emergency contact. “I don’t care what the hospital told David,” she yelled and it wasn’t true because she wanted to know, but she was trying to throw clothes into a half-filled suitcase and make sure she had her phone charger before sprinting towards her front door. “Surgery for what?”  
  
She would have bet, at least, eight-hundred million dollars that Mary Margaret had her eyes closed when she answered.

“His hand was too badly damaged,” Mary Margaret whispered. Emma stopped moving. “They’re going to take his hand.”

Emma exhaled and the noise that came out of her didn’t sound particularly human. It sounded, decidedly, broken and she was bordering close to weeping in the middle of her hallway, suitcase half-zipped and clothes falling out and she’d texted him about cannolis.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret chanced softly, like she was dealing with a scared animal who was liable to snap if approached the wrong way.

“Still here.”  
  
“You’ve got to go. He’d...he’ll want you there when he wakes up and you were going this weekend anyway.”

“How did you know that?”  
  
“I’ve known forever Emma,” Mary Margaret said, a hint of _something_ just on the edge of her voice. Emma didn’t have time for that. She was too busy trying to stuff a suitcase in her car’s trunk and wondered how long she could drive with half a tank of gas before she’d have to stop and she might be able to get to Boston.

She’d probably just will herself the rest of the way.

“I didn’t…” Emma mumbled, slamming down the top of the trunk and kicking at her bumper like that would do any good at all. “M’s do you think he knows?”  
  
Mary Margaret smiled. Or Emma assumed she smiled. Her phone was going to die soon. “Of course,” Mary Margaret promised. “You’re absolutely terrible at pretending like you don’t. And he’s been in love with you since, well, forever.”  
  
It probably wasn’t safe to start driving without a destination or just on the edge of some sort of full-blown panic attack, but Mary Margaret had used _that_ word with such ease that it almost sounded normal and Emma nearly took a full and complete breathe.

“Yeah, I know,” she muttered, tapping out an impatient rhythm on her steering wheel. “David left already?”  
  
“As soon as the phone call came and that was twenty minutes ago. They said the surgery would last a pretty long time. I just…”  
  
“I know,” Emma repeated – for an entirely different reason. “Thank you.”  
  
“He knows, Emma. He’s known forever.”

If asked, Emma would say she had absolutely no idea how she managed to get to Boston without causing several different accidents on I-95, but she did it in an hour and a thirty-six minutes flat, shaving nearly twenty minutes off the Google maps suggested time.

She barely remembered to grab the parking ticket _thing_ so her car wouldn’t get towed, sprinting through the garage and up more stairs and she had no idea where to go.

Her phone died somewhere around Portsmouth.

Emma briefly considered just wandering around the hospital until she found something or someone who looked like they’d be able to help, but it wasn’t a very good plan and she spun on the spot when she heard someone shout her name.

David jogged towards her, a look of absolute disbelief on his face when he pulled her flush against him, hugging as tightly as he could and she’d started crying again at some point.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, mumbling the words into her hair and she hadn’t really come up with a reason. She’d been too busy trying not to drive _over_ the cars in front of her when they weren't going fast enough.

“Um, Mary Margaret called me,” Emma explained. “And, uh, I’ve got some time off after catching that skip and I figured you could use some emotional support. Or something.”  
  
He gaped at her, pulling back far enough to widen his eyes and it didn’t make much sense in the realm of explanations because the last thing Emma ever was was _emotionally supportive_ , but she needed a reason and she was still fairly certain David didn’t know.

“You shouldn’t be by yourself,” she continued. “I just...if the surgery’s going to last forever and I mean he’s going to wake up and, well, I’ve known Jones forever, right? You guys shouldn’t be by yourselves here.”

The name felt weird on her tongue, like it didn’t belong to her anymore and she hadn’t actually called him in that in what felt like several lifetimes, but she hadn’t told him everything yet either and it was a weird line to walk in the doorway of an absolutely enormous hospital.  
  
And she wanted to be there when Killian woke up. She wanted...a whole slew of things she absolutely should not in a moment like that, but she almost didn’t care because the only thing Emma truly _needed_ was to tell Killian she loved him.

An absolutely absurd amount.

David still wasn’t blinking, staring at Emma like he’d never looked at her before and she tried not to blink or blush or dissolve into a puddle of girlfriend-type terror. “Ok,” he nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Ok, come on.”  
  
He led her to another waiting room and a small row of chairs he’d, apparently, commandeered for himself and they sat there for hours with updates coming few and far between and David fell asleep at some point.

Emma just kept sitting and waiting and hoping and he’d be _fine_ – he had to be fine. She’d left her bag in her car and her charger was in her bag and she had no idea what time it was when an absolutely exhausted looking doctor in slightly dingy scrubs appeared in front of her, stepping into her line of vision and coughing pointedly when she didn’t immediately look up.

David almost punched her in the face when he jerked awake.

“You can come in now,” he informed them and Emma’s lungs felt like they were shrinking. “He’s still a little groggy from the anesthesia, so he may be in and out of consciousness, but it’s important that he knows you’re here.”

David was already standing up, holding out an expectant hand towards Emma and she nodded before she took it, like she was trying to psych herself up for the moment and after so much waiting and swearing at other cars and _hoping_ , she was, suddenly, absolutely terrified.

“You coming, Em?” David asked, a picture of certainty and _older brother_ that extended to Killian too and she nodded again.

She didn’t let go of his hand when they walked down the hallway or pushed open the door and she’d never seen so many machines in her life.

There were wires everywhere and several different things were beeping and the bed looked far too big. Or, maybe, Killian looked a bit too small and Emma squeezed her eyes shut, willing the scene in front of her to change.

It didn’t.

David tugged on her hand when she stopped moving, pulling her forward and oblivious to the tears on her cheeks again. Killian blinked slowly, as if he were moving in slow motion and Emma tried to stay upright when his gaze drifted towards her.

Something about gravitational pull.

“Emma,” Killian breathed and it sounded like a question and she couldn’t stop nodding. HIs eyes widened slightly, as much as they could under the lingering effects of medically administered drugs, and she was fairly certain several of her organs were going into failure.

He tried to move – of course he tried to move – shifting to his left to block the blunted arm at his side and Emma made sort of absurd noise halfway between a gasp and a whimper and she let go of David’s hand when she all but lunged forward, palm resting on Killian’s cheek.

He closed his eyes.

David looked confused.

Emma didn’t look at David.

“Hey,” she whispered, leaning forward until her forehead nearly rested on Killian’s and that probably wasn’t advisable by several different medical journals. “It’s...it’s ok. You’re ok.”

Killian didn’t open his eyes, but she could hear him exhale softly and maybe that was a step in the right direction. “Emma, love, I…”  
  
“I know,” she said. And she did. “I’ve known forever.”  
  
He did something absurd with his eyes and she tried not to think about how it was just the ridiculous amount of morphine they probably had him on, but she hadn’t actually moved her hand and he was still impossibly warm. “Go back to sleep,” Emma continued. “We’ll be here.”  
  
“You?” Killian asked, a desperation in the question and the letters and Mary Margaret had almost been _too_ right.

Emma nodded. Again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He seemed to accept that, making a quiet noise in the back of his throat when his eyelids fluttered shut again and Emma tried to ignore David’s stare in between her shoulder blades. She didn’t move immediately, brushing her thumb over the scar on Killian’s cheek and the curve of his jaw and _fuck it_ , she kissed his forehead before she pulled away.

David waited a full five minutes before diving into the interrogation. She was sure she’d appreciate that at some point.

She didn’t in the moment.

“You want to tell me what’s really going on, now?” David asked, pushing on Emma’s shoulder until she spun around and there was a challenge in his gaze.

She shook her head. At least it wasn’t a nod. “Nothing,” she lied. David laughed at her. “There is nothing going on, Detective. Stand down. Put the badge away. Anything else you can think of that would make sense in this moment.”  
  
“I’m not sure anything makes sense in this moment.”

“Seems awfully melodramatic don’t you think?” Emma challenged. David tilted his head. “He’s...this is...I’m here to make sure Killian’s ok,” she said and the lie seemed more obvious the longer she kept talking. “Exactly what I told you.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Why would I lie about that?”

“I have no idea,” David sighed and it was difficult to feel every single human emotion at once, but Emma’s brain seemed determined.

They stood there for a few moments, an impasse of stubborn and worried and guilt that was probably deep enough to drown in at this point, the only noise in the room the incessant beeping of half a dozen different machines and she never figured out who moved first.

They probably moved together – some kind of weird sibling-like wavelength that didn’t make sense in the realm of science and medicine – but Emma didn’t care about any of that when she crashed back against David’s chest and his hand cupped the back of her head while she promptly sobbed into his cotton t-shirt.

“It’s going to be fine,” David mumbled, a quiet metronome of certainty and optimism spoken mostly into her hair. Emma lost track of the number of times he said it, the words starting to jumble together the longer they stood there and she wasn’t aware a person could run out of tears until she did, sniffling against fabric and dragging her knuckles across her cheeks until she pinched her own skin.

They sat in a different set of chairs for another round of waiting and David’s phone, somehow, hadn’t died – just enough power to book a hotel room a couple hundred feet away. “Double beds,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple when she rested her head on his shoulder. “It’ll be like camping out when were kids.”  
  
It felt unnatural to laugh and her whole body ached with a distinct lack of sleep and possibly hunger and that gnawing sense of guilt in the back of her brain. She didn’t want to leave. And David knew it. “That’s ok,” Emma muttered. “I’m so used to not sleeping at this point, it’s almost easy. And I don’t want him to be alone when he wakes up again.”

David’s eyes flashed with something that looked a lot bigger than just _understanding_ and he kissed her again before he stood up. “Sure, Em,” he said. “I promised Mary Margaret I’d give her some updates soon anyway and I think that one nurse behind the desk is going to strangle me if I use my phone again.”

She nodded again. _God_.

“Ok,” Emma mumbled, sitting up straighter when David took a step towards the automatic doors and away from the vaguely judgemental stare of that one nurse.

She waited until he was gone to move, muscles protesting at the shift and she was fairly positive there was a thin layer of _gross_ lingering on her skin. Her hair felt like it was on the wrong side of greasy and she’d been wearing the same _RPI Engineering_ t-shirt for twenty-seven hours straight.

Ah, shit she forgot she was wearing that shirt.

Killian was still asleep when she padded into the room – where she absolutely wasn’t supposed to be because there were rules and regulations and probably something about air-quality control that wasn’t helped by the fact that she hadn’t actually showered in two days. Emma didn’t care.

She sank into the empty chair a few feet away from the bed, stretching her legs out and she fell asleep because she almost slid on the floor when she heard her name.

“Emma,” Killian said, voice still scratchy with sleep and medicine and he looked at her with something that felt like abject terror.

She blinked, licking her lips and trying to shake away a piece of hair that had gotten stuck to her forehead. “Hey,” she smiled, but that felt foreign too and Killian flinched when she took a step towards him. “Are you…”  
  
“Don’t finish that sentence.”  
  
Emma swallowed. “Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s kind of a dumb question, huh?”  
  
“Not dumb, loaded,” he corrected. “What time is it? How long have you been here? How did you get here even?”  
  
“I have no idea to questions one and two. And, uh, Mary Margaret called. About twenty minutes after the hospital called David as your emergency contact, but that was yesterday, so if we’re circling back around to question number two, then something like nearly thirty hours.”

Killian’s jaw dropped and he let out a soft exhale. “You’ve been here the whole time?”  
  
“Where else would I be?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I...it was my fault, Swan. There was a mistake and faulty equipment and they couldn’t move the fucking cargo out of the hold and I went down there because it was something like a trillion dollars on the line and that’s not even really my job…”  
  
“Yeah, well, no one really knows what your job is,” Emma muttered, the half-hearted insult falling out of her with practiced ease even in the most inopportune of moments.

Killian’s eyes flashed again, but there wasn’t that hint of _something_ in his gaze, it almost looked like disbelief or amusement and one side of his mouth ticked up. He moved his right hand. And she practically sprinted to hold onto it.

“Are you making jokes, love?” he asked softly, thumb brushing over her palm.

“Yeah, well, I really don’t understand how your job works. And I don’t know what else to do. I was...I nearly killed twenty-seven different people trying to get here.”

“That’s a very specific number.”

“If I was counting then I was focused on that and not on crying or coming up with absolutely horrible scenarios in my head. The second one only kind of worked.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Killian said softly, squeezing her hand as tightly as he could. It wasn’t very tight. “But, I um....”

He shifted again, trying to roll his left shoulder back and keep his arm pinned at his side and Emma’s lungs were doing that shrinking thing again, but her tongue felt too big for her mouth and she was crying.

She couldn't’ seem to stop crying.

She squeezed her own fingers, trying to pour every single ounce of emotion and feeling she could into one movement and she wasn’t really sure it worked because Killian didn’t say anything, just pressed his lips together when Emma’s eyes landed on his left side.

It was a clean break – and really she wasn’t sure what she expected because modern science was, well, modern science, but she hadn’t been lying about absolutely horrible scenarios and she’d come up with some slightly mangled images in her head.

The rounded edge took her a bit by surprise though and she figured it had to do with the several pounds of gauze and whatever else modern science used to prevent infection or gangrene and she wasn’t even sure gangrene was a threat in situations like these. She kept staring.

She still hadn’t actually told him.

Killian’s mouth moved again, eyes flitting across her face and down her body, twisted so she was balanced just on the edge of his bed and he made a noise when his gaze landed on her t-shirt. “They haven’t actually been in here much yet,” he started. “At least not while I’ve been awake, but I’d assume there are...options about what happens next or what could happen next and I don’t think it has to be like that forever.”  
  
“What?” Emma asked, snapping her head up at the bitterness in his voice and she shouldn’t have been surprised.

“I’m just saying it probably won’t always be quite that, you know, jarring. Just nothing at the end of my arm. There’s probably prosthetics and maybe some kind of lawsuit coming and it won’t...well it’s not something that’ll be that way forever. It’d be almost whole again.”

She stood up, pulling her hand away from Killian’s so she could cross her arms tightly over her chest and he couldn’t seem to hold her gaze anymore. “What are you saying?” Emma asked.

She already knew.

“I knew it as soon as they got me back on deck,” Killian continued, right hand flexing slightly like he was trying to stop himself from reaching out for her. She was worried he was going to tug the fitted sheet off the mattress. “I couldn’t feel my hand and I could...the smell, fuck, it….Emma, it hurt to breathe and I couldn’t move and I knew. I knew what they were going to have to do and it was my fault. I’d walked right into the failure, certain I could fix it and I just wanted to get off the goddamn boat so I could go home and you were texting me about cannolis.”

Emma bit the side of her tongue, trying to will herself to _hold it together_ , but it was touch and go and Killian was still talking. “And everything hurt, like a shockwave through my whole body and I don’t really remember most of it, but they airlifted us out and I kept coming in and out of it and I kept,” he paused to take a deep breath and Emma’s tongue was bleeding. “I kept thinking about you and how much I wanted you here. I thought I was dreaming the first time I woke up.”

“Mary Margaret knew,” Emma whispered. “About us. She told me and said that I should be here and I...I was terrified something had happened to you.”  
  
“It did.”  
  
“No, but…”  
  
“Emma,” Killian snapped and the lack of nickname wasn’t quite as surprising anymore. “It did, but there’s got to be options. We can, well, I can fix this. Then I wouldn’t be…you wouldn’t have to...”  
  
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Emma warned, throwing his own words back at him and it was immature and petty, but he kept staring at her like she was getting ready to run for the metaphorical hills. She took a step back towards him, pressing her thighs against the side of the bed until the metal frame felt like it was trying to work through her jeans.

“I want you to listen to me, right now, ok,” she shouted, voice rising of its own free will and she was going to bruise both her thighs. They were probably going to draw several scandalized nurses soon. Killian nodded. “I don’t care. And I don’t mean that I don’t care about what happened to you. I would have run here to make sure I was here when you woke up, but I...I am in this for the long haul and eighteen-thousand different things could have happened today and none of them would have changed how I feel.”

“Emma…”  
  
“No! You don’t get to _Emma_ me a hundred times like actually using my name is going to distract me from the point I’m trying to make.”  
  
Killian’s eyebrows leapt into his hair, the blue in his eyes suddenly sharper or something that was probably impossible. Maybe she’d ask a doctor. “And what point are you trying to make, love?”  
  
“I love you,” she yelled and it was loud and aggressive and probably not appropriate for the moment, but this whole thing started because they started making out on the floor, so maybe it kind of made sense for them. “Just...forever and I don’t think I realized until I told you there wasn’t an us, but there’s always been an us, hasn’t there? Because you’ve always kind of been there and it’s always been…”  
  
“Been what?”  
  
“Easy,” Emma finished. “It was easy. Like waking up or falling asleep and I can’t think of any other examples.”  
  
“Those work, Swan,” Killian said. He almost smiled, finally moving enough to brush the pads of his fingers across her palm and she flipped her hand to hold onto him. “This isn’t going to be exactly easy, love.”  
  
“I'm not expecting it to be. But I’m not looking for an out. You just have to tell me what you want.”

He tilted his head, staring up at her with something that felt a bit like awe and just a hint like reverence and she still wasn’t ready for the words when he opened his mouth. “Don’t you know, Emma? It’s you.”

In theory, actually swooning during a moment like that was probably somewhere in the realm of romantic, but Emma couldn't bring herself to actually move – far too aware of all the wires and the beeping and one of the noises was getting faster and that probably should have been a sign.

A nurse sprinted through the open door, glaring at Emma when she noticed her there. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “You can’t be in here!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma stammered. “I can, uh, I can go back in the waiting room.”

She tried to move – mostly so she didn’t turn into stone under the seemingly growing glare of every single person employed by Massachusetts General – but that was difficult to do when her fingers were still wrapped up with another human being.

“Hey,” Killian muttered and he looked exhausted. Emma ducked her head, brushing her fingers through his hair and back across his cheek and he almost smiled. “I love you.”

They’d watched a documentary one time about the temperature of Mercury and the sun and something about warmth that Emma only kind of remembered, but in the moment, with the words feeling as if they were hanging in the air in front of her and Killian’s hand in hers and another nurse joining the fray to exercise _hospital authority_ , Emma kept thinking about Mercury and the sun and warmth and how similar it felt to being loved.

He knew.

And she knew.

And they’d find a way.

Killian was right – it wasn’t easy. It was exhausting and depressing and challenging and Emma took a week off work so she didn’t have to leave Boston right away and she bought one of those portable charger things so her phone was always somewhere around ninety-percent charged.

It didn’t make it any easier.

There were post-op decisions and prosthetic decisions and PT decisions and an entirely brand-new lifestyle to adopt, but her life was in Portland and Killian’s life was in Boston and it was some kind of miracle that everyone in the entire world didn’t realize they were dating with the amount of time she spent driving south on I-95.

She put several thousand miles on her car in the next six months and by the time things got, relatively, back to normal it was nearly April again and she had two days off after catching some guy who blew off bail for larceny. Emma had finally gotten a box of cannolis, stopping on her way to Killian’s apartment, and she was struggling to keep her balance as she tried to hold a small smorgasbord of Italian pastries in one hand while fishing her keys out of her pocket with the other.

Emma was half a moment away from kicking at the door when it swung open in front of her. Killian grinned, a pen stuck behind his ear and a notebook stuffed in the back of his jeans and he moved before she was entirely ready, mouth catching hers with practiced ease until Emma nearly forgot about the goddamn cannolis.

He wrapped his right arm around her waist, tugging her against him until her flats dragged across the floor and they stumbled back into his apartment, a mess of limbs and mouths and that fucking tongue thing.  

It had taken some time to regain their rhythm, so to speak, but they’d started this whole _thing_ on the floor, after all, and they were both, apparently, very good at making out and it was difficult not to do that when she wanted to, just...a questionable amount of the time.

And they’d both been cautious at first – far too aware of stitches and, then, prosthetics and modern science wasn’t always quite so modern because there was a lot clicking and undoing and the first time they’d just been so _determined_ they barely even paused to worry about any of it.

But that changed eventually too and there was snow on the ground when Emma promised _it’s alright_ and Killian didn’t blink when she pulled the plastic away from his arm and trailed her lips against the edge that shouldn’t have been there and he told her he loved her no less than forty-seven times.

It got better. He still _cared_ and worried and probably would always be both, especially when people’s eyes flitted his direction, but he was a little less when he was with her and she’d let her fingers brush down his arm and over his hand and he started holding onto her with both arms.

“I’m going to drop the cannolis,” she mumbled, drawing a laugh out of him that seemed to settle in the pit of her stomach and in between each one of her ribs.

“I promise, this is more important than the cannolis,” Killian said. Emma sighed, but the sound turned into something decidedly different when he started dragging kisses along the curve of her neck and he was already trying to tug the box out of her hand and work the bag off her shoulder.

“See, I know you didn’t mean to insult the cannolis, but I almost got a ticket in pursuit of the cannolis and the one lobster tail that’s in there. Don’t touch that one. That’s mine.”  
  
“Swan, stop talking about Italian desserts for two seconds.”

She leaned back at the tone in his voice, the excitement  in those few words and whatever feeling that had landed in her stomach a few moments before seemed to grow exponentially when Emma met his gaze.

“What’s going on?” she asked, fingers moving towards the front of his shirt and he reached his right hand up to wrap around her wrist. He kept his left hand anchored on her waist.

“They called.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“That firm in Portland I mentioned a couple of weeks ago. I just got off the phone with a Mr. McDonnell who is very interested in bringing my very impressive talents on board. As soon as possible. Those were verbatim quotes, by the way.”  
  
Killian beamed at her, eyebrows doing something totally unfair if he wanted to have an actual conversation and not just start making out with her in his kitchen again. And it hadn’t been bad recently – it had been good, really, all things considered – but this was like taking good and throwing it into a particle accelerator and then sending it to the moon.

Or something.

She couldn’t think when he was staring at her like that.

“Yeah, I believe you,” Emma muttered, trying to piece together the news and what it meant and he’d told her about the job two weeks ago, a FaceTime call while she was sitting in her car and waiting on some degenerate to stumble out of a bar downtown.

She’d tried not to get her hopes up.

God, she wanted him in Portland.

It’d make this whole making out in kitchens thing much easier.

Killian tilted his head when she didn’t say anything else, didn’t come up with some sort of follow-up or the string of questions she absolutely did have, but couldn’t bring herself to articulate.

“Is that…” Killian said. “Swan, they want me to come on. Officially. Soon. Within the next couple of weeks and it’s different than anything I’ve done here, way more environmental-based, but there’s a lot of design work involved and I’ve always wanted….”

She cut him off. With her mouth. They had a habit of doing that.

Killian sighed against her, fingers threading through her hair when he pulled her closer to him and Emma’s hands moved quickly, trying to pull off clothing or just use him as some kind of anchor when her knees started to feel a bit more wobbly than a normal human’s should.

They were moving, which was probably for the best because she couldn’t really stand, and her feet barely brushed over the floor when he tugged her up. Emma pushed on his shoulders, some kind of unspoken command for _something_ that just served to work a laugh out of him and Killian’s arm tightened around her waist when they moved back into the living room. He dropped back into the corner of the couch and it felt like the entire building shook when the piece of ancient furniture pushed up against the wall.

They didn’t stop kissing. Or trying to tug off clothing.

Emma rolled her hips, trying to push herself up at the same time she was trying to do the opposite and she grinned against Killian’s mouth when she was rewarded with a slightly breathless _fucking hell, Swan_. “You are wearing way too many clothes,” she muttered, appreciating the way his whole body shuddered underneath her when she dragged her mouth across his jaw.

“I’m going to assume this means you want me to move then, right?”  
  
“Was the jumping you not confirmation?”  
  
He laughed, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder and his fingers felt like sparks when they slid under the top of her jeans.“I had my suspicions,” he admitted. “But actually hearing it’s not all that bad either.”  
  
“You’re very greedy.”  
  
“When it comes to you, love, absolutely.”  
  
Emma groaned, but it was mostly to fight off whatever was happening to her stomach – twisting and turning and maybe beating out its own pulse to try and match up with the rhythm of her heart and it was the most absurd thing she’d ever thought, but he was moving to Portland.

He was moving for her.

“What a line,” she mumbled, tugging on his t-shirt tight enough that she was almost worried it was going to rip. “God, seriously, take off your clothes.”  
  
“Pot and kettle.”  
  
“Now is not the time for clichés.”

Killian hummed, the smirk on his face doing something _stupid_ to Emma’s higher brain functions and he was _moving for her_. “Of course not,” he laughed softly, canting his hips and her breath audibly caught in her throat. His left hand worked under the hem of another stolen shirt – RPI alumni emblazoned across the front and at least three sizes too big – and Emma’s back arched when he managed to unhook her bra without looking.

He flashed her a knowing grin, eyes brighter than she could remember seeing them in months and this was going to do dangerous thing to his ego. “Should I be impressed or worried that you’re able to do that?” Emma asked, standing up to tug her jeans over her hips.

Killian’s eyes widened. Maybe this would do dangerous things to her ego too. “Impressed, definitely,” he grinned and he shuddered again when Emma’s fingers trailed over the top of his thigh. She nodded towards him again, an unspoken command to _seriously take of your clothes_ and he didn’t object that time, making fast work of buttons and pants and the shirt until they were both decidedly less dressed.

He didn’t blink and she didn’t move – some sort of romantic interlude and possible impasse that felt a lot like it did at the very beginning, standing and waiting and _hoping_ that this would all work. It absolutely was going to work.

And she moved first because that was kind of how it always went for them, him waiting on her and her plunging in and they both might have groaned when she moved back onto his thighs.

“Shit, my wallet,” Killian mumbled, hand everywhere and left arm wrapped tightly around her waist and Emma’s knees were going to protest to every single one of these moments later on that night. “I have no idea where my wallet is.”  
  
Emma shook her head and she was momentarily concerned with the damage Killian was doing to his eyes – the way they kept widening in surprise and then narrowing in confusion and back again several times. “It’s ok,” she said quickly, rocking her hips again and his teeth sank into his lower lip. “I, well, it’s good if you’re good and we’re not...I went back on the pill when this all started on the chance that this happened.”  
  
“That I couldn’t find my wallet?”  
  
“That I really wanted to have sex with my boyfriend and didn’t want to stop and try and fish through drawers and or pants pockets for a condom.”  
  
He groaned, but it was as far away from frustrated as an actual groan could be, particularly when his hand started moving and their not-so-small pile of clothes got even larger. Emma moved again, several different muscle groups unhappy with the shift, but she couldn’t focus on that when it felt like everything all at once and she couldn't seem to catch her breath when Killian’s fingers shifted a very particular way.

“I love you,” he whispered and she wasn’t sure he meant to say it out loud, but she heard it and that was kind of par for their emotional course.

Emma laughed softly, pressing kisses wherever her lips landed. “Charmer,” she muttered, closing her eyes when she felt his hand brush up her spine. “And we haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet.”  
  
“I think you’re underestimating the amount of fun I’m having, Swan.”  
  
She almost fell off the couch – head thrown back and shoulders shaking and Killian’s smile was probably going to be imprinted on every inch of her brain, but she was happy and excited and hopeful. It was a heady kind of feeling that was, probably, amplified by the distinct lack of clothing between them.

There wasn’t anything to tug, but there was the rest of the night and, maybe, the rest of their lives and they’d get there at some point. Emma was much more interested in the very comfortable bed at the other end of the hall, however, and at some point maybe she’d mention he should bring that to Portland with him.

He was moving to Portland.

And they didn’t eat the cannolis until somewhere in the realm of four in the morning – words ringing in the air above them and around them and her _I love you_ didn’t seem quite so terrifying when it was mixed in with several different variations of _fuck you feel good_ and _yeah, like that_ and Emma fell asleep eventually and easily with Killian’s arm wrapped around her waist.

He moved on a Saturday with a few boxes and pizza that Emma ordered when they’re friends helped lift things and unpack other things and David kept glancing at them whenever they walked by each other, doing their best not to actually touch each other.

It didn’t really work.

Which was how they ended up with a list of rules and a set schedule for _how this was going to work_ before David’s very fancy event on the other side of city. And Emma hadn’t really been spending much time in her own apartment for the last three weeks.

“See, these are the things you can’t be doing when we go to David and Mary Margaret’s,” Emma mumbled, but the words didn’t hold much weight when they were spoken mostly into Killian’s lips.

“I’m getting it out of my system,” he challenged and he’d absolutely done it for the reaction. She rolled her eyes, swatting at his shoulder and she clearly wasn’t quick enough or his reflexes were just _insane_ , but it ended with his fingers wrapped around her wrist and his lips brushing across her knuckles and it had to be fine.

So they’d kind of been lying to everyone for...years. It was fine. They were going to come clean and there was going to be a painfully adorable baby present so no one could murder anyone.

Except Emma murdering Killian if he broke those rules she’d handwritten the night before.

“It’ll be fine, Swan,” he repeated, tapping his thumb on her knuckle for emphasis. “And if not, we’ll just remind him that Ruthie’s there and he can’t actually yell because he’ll scar her for life.”

“Jeez.”

“There’s a plan.”  
  
“I know, I wrote it.”

“Then trust it. And me. We’ll be fine, love.”

They made out for five more minutes before they left the apartment. And Ruby totally knew.

“You guys got a look,” she said, barely letting them in the apartment before descending on both of them with a smile that felt a little wolfish. “Awful convenient you just showed up in the hallway at the same time, huh?”  
  
“Awfully,” Emma corrected and Ruby’s smile took up most of her face.

“Excuse me?”  
  
“The correct form of that word is awfully. Adverbs.”  
  
“Are you correcting my grammar, Em?”  
  
Emma nodded and they’d already broken rules one through four. Killian's hand landed on her back. “It’s a nervous habit,” he muttered, pressing the heel of his hand into her spine and she probably shouldn’t have worn a dress because she swore she could feel him everywhere.

“Oh yeah?” Ruby asked, twisting one eyebrow in an almost pitiful imitation of Killian. “And tell me something, Jones, just how long have you been aware of Emma’s nervous habits?”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma sighed. She rolled her head back, resting most of her weight against Killian’s hand when his arm shifted and there went rule seven. “Rubes you were, literally, the first person to know. Stop acting like you don’t.”  
  
She made a dismissive noise and there was no way David wasn’t listening to all of this somewhere. Ruthie was shouting not-quite words around the corner and Emma could dimly make out the scent of something baking. “Oh shit,” she hissed. “Should we have brought something? Were we supposed to bring something?”  
  
“I thought you guys didn’t come together,” Ruby said. “And if you want to get technical, Belle was the first person to know when Jones decided he was going to play internet hero and force you to watch space documentaries or whatever.”

Killian sounded like he was choking. “Yeah, there were no space documentaries.”  
  
And Emma probably would have appreciated the slightly stunned look on Ruby’s if she weren’t so busy blushing and trying to melt into the floor at the same time.

“Behave,” Belle said, moving into the foyer from the kitchen and this was in direct violation of rules eight and nine. There wasn’t supposed to be any clumping. They weren’t supposed to draw attention.

They were supposed to get in and eat whatever baked goods Mary Margaret was obviously baking and then they’d tell David and, hopefully, he’d understand the lie because this had _just happened_ – for years. Actual years.

And Emma wanted to move out of her apartment.

“Who are you talking about, me or Jones?” Ruby asked and Emma tried not to kick something. She had very violent tendencies.

“Both of you,” Belle said. “I thought there were rules. Six feet of separation or whatever.”  
  
Killian glanced at Emma. “Are you sharing rules with other people, love? That almost seems wrong.”

“We went to get coffee the other day and I asked about David’s...event, whatever we’re calling this and how it would affect you guys, you know, being you.”  
  
“Being us?”  
  
“Staring at each other like you’re the center of the universe.”  
  
“That was a space pun,” Ruby added. “Did you pick up on that Jones?”

He glared at her, pressing his lips together tightly and he hadn’t moved his hand. “Take twenty steps back, Lucas.”

There were footsteps coming towards them and it was definitely Mary Margaret because Ruth’s voice was getting louder and there were shouts of words that might, at some point, actually resemble their names.

“Hey guys,” Mary Margaret grinned, shifting her kids weight on her hip when the not-quite toddler tried to launch herself at Killian. “Did you just get here?”  
  
“Yup,” Emma answered immediately. Ruby laughed. Loudly. “Definitely just got here. Not together.”

“Really selling it, Em,” Ruby muttered.

Emma barely heard her. She was far too preoccupied watching Killian tugging Ruth away from Mary Margaret, smiling when she tried to pull on his shirt and he mumbled _hey there, little love_ under his breath.

“That’s good, Em,” Ruby continued. “You’re making this whole thing look totally legit.”  
  
Emma glared at her. Mary Margaret was very clearly trying not to laugh. And David was walking towards them.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” he asked, but he looked straight at Emma and she felt that same sense of guilt land in her very center like several different boulders and possibly an asteroid. Or a meteor. Shooting straight through her.

It wasn’t a very well thought out metaphor.

“Talking,” Emma answered and, well, it was kind of an answer.

David hummed, rocking back on his heels when he glanced towards Killian, still muttering words against Ruth’s not-quite curly hair. “Huh,” he muttered, lifting both his eyebrows and Ruby made some kind of impossible noise.

“Of course,” Ruby mumbled, glancing in Mary Margaret’s direction. “Did you tell him?”  
  
Mary Margaret shook her head. “Not a word.”

“What?” Emma asked, voice cracking just a little on the word and _that_ was definitely like a meteor because the realization seemed to slam into her at an almost violent rate. She groaned. “Oh my God, for real?”

Killian looked like some kind of human-type statue, frozen with his cheek resting against Ruth’s head and Emma got the distinct impression he was trying to use her as some kind of shield.

David shrugged. “Were you guys going to say anything before you, like, got married or were we just going to show up at a ceremony and you’d be like...this is happening?”  
  
Emma exhaled a huff of air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding onto and she moved or, maybe, Killian moved, but this whole _six foot_ thing was an absolute joke. “We probably would have mentioned something before then,” Killian muttered and Emma was going to fall over.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth,” Mary Margaret suggested, reaching out to rest a comforting hand on Emma’s shoulder. It didn’t really work.

“Ah, well, at least there’s that,” David grinned, making a face when Ruth turned towards him. “You drop my kid and I really will you kill you, Jones.”  
  
“I’m not dropping your kid,” Killian said. It didn’t feel like they were talking about Ruth.

“How long have you known?” Emma asked, practically shouting the question and Mary Margaret’s baked goods were probably going to burn. “Is that what this is? Is this not a fancy party with lame e-mail invitations is this…”  
  
“An intervention,” David finished. “I mean obviously. Wait, did you say you thought my e-mail invitations were lame?”  
  
“They were definitely lame,” Killian promised, both Belle and Ruby nodding slightly in the background. Mary Margaret kept trying not to laugh. “And we don’t need an intervention. There were rules and a schedule and we were absolutely going to tell you. Today.”  
  
“Because of the e-mail invitations and the belief that this was something else entirely. You’ve been in Portland for weeks. You’ve been dating my sister for years, what the hell have you been waiting for?”  
  
Killian blinked, head snapping towards Emma and she had no idea what was going on. None of the rules prepared her for this. “How long have you known?” Killian asked. “Because this has…”  
  
“Years,” David said. “Literal years. You came for a weekend or something in...July? Was it fourth of July?”  
  
“Who are you asking?”  
  
“Yes,” Mary Margaret answered and Emma wondered how much damage she could do to her retinas if she just stopped blinking. “It was definitely fourth of July.”  
  
David nodded, settling into the story. “Right, right, so it was fourth of July and you came for the weekend and you were like some kind of Emma-based satellite, just stuck in her orbit or whatever and…”  
  
“Did you get that space joke, Jones,” Ruby interrupted and the whole house groaned.

“God, Lucas, stop,” Killian sighed. She laughed when she leaned back against David, reaching a hand out to tickle Ruth’s stomach. .

“Anyway,” David continued. “You showed up for fourth of July and there were space puns and that one time I came outside because, you know, you guys had disappeared and uh...you were…”  
  
“Making out,” Ruby finished, ignoring Mary Margaret’s reprimand. “You were making out. And just for the record, we’ve all known since then for sure. I mean, Belle knew from the very beginning, but that was kind of confirmation.”  
  
Emma shook her head. “Wait, wait, wait, fourth of July here with us at a restaurant downtown?” David grinned. “But that was…that was the beginning!  I mean, well, that was only a couple weeks after Killian fixed the internet.”  
  
“Is that a euphemism?” Mary Margaret asked and it was the single most _un-Mary Margaret_ thing anyone had ever said.

It seemed to fit in with the theme of the day.

“No,” Emma sighed. “Well….no, oh my God. But, seriously, back up. You guys have all known the entire time? Why wouldn’t you say anything?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t you?” David challenged.

Emma didn’t have an answer for that. This whole party thing had completely fallen off the rails. She needed to look at the rules. “Because...you...I mean it’s such a cliché isn’t it? Your sister and your best friend and everyone always thought it was inevitable and we were just friends for awhile and…”  
  
“And then you were making out on fourth of July and doing a really crap job of trying to pretend.”  
  
“Yeah, that.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have been mad,” David said. “I mean I’m disappointed you guys thought I would have been, but we’ve all known the whole time anyway, so the point seems kind of moot.”  
  
“He just told you he wasn’t mad, he was just disappointed,” Belle laughed and maybe they’d all developed different personalities at some point that afternoon. Emma gaped at Killian, as stunned as she was and Ruthie was absolutely unaware of anything that was going on.

“So then I figured when Killian got the job in Portland, you’d guys would finally come clean, but then you’ve been acting like Emma’s actually still living in her apartment and, so, enough was enough or whatever.”  
  
“Or whatever,” Emma repeated, still staring at Killian who, at some point, had just started laughing. It sounded a little manic. “And I am still living in my apartment.”  
  
“Eh,” Killian objected and that was the last thing she expected. “I mean, that’s kind of true, love.”  
  
“Oh, add that to the reasons too,” Mary Margaret said, bouncing on her toes with barely contained excitement and Emma knew it was because the secret was, finally, out. “Killian’s been calling you _love_ for as long as I’ve known you guys.”  
  
“Longer,” David muttered. “Since the very beginning.”  
  
Emma’s eyes somehow managed to get even wider and she really needed them to move so she could sit down and try and keep her heartbeat even. She shook her head, not entirely sure what she was arguing and Killian’s eyes seemed glued to his shoes. “That’s not,” Emma mumbled. “I mean...maybe I’m not really living in my apartment anymore. I don’t really want to live in my apartment anymore. Just for the record.”

“Yeah?” Killian asked softly, shifting Ruth when she tried to climb onto his shoulders.

“I mean...yeah. If you want.”  
  
“Swan, are you kidding me?”  
  
“You’re taking all the romance out of this.”  
  
“We were supposed to be standing six feet away from each other at all times, love,” Killian grinned. “I think we’ve been lacking a bit of romance all day.”  
  
Ruby groaned. “Agh, is it going to be like this the whole time now? You guys just making eyes and being grossly in love.”  
  
“Yeah, probably,” Emma admitted, smiling despite the complete deviation from the plan and they’d been lying for no reason at all for the last two years. “Hey, but I have another question. If you guys all knew from fourth of July then, David, you knew why I came to Boston.”  
  
He hummed, shrugging and slinging an arm over Mary Margaret’s shoulders. “Oh, yeah, I totally knew, but it seemed like kind of an asshole move to ask about your boyfriend while he was in the hospital, right?”  
  
“Yeah, I guess so.”  
  
“I’ve got another follow-up. Did you guys really not get together at our wedding? We all thought…”

“Stop talking about this,” Killian muttered, a tone that left little room for argument. “Nothing happened at the wedding, nothing was ever going to happen at the wedding, we were not operating on your timetable.” He turned, hitching Ruth over his shoulder with an arm wrapped tightly around her waist and it didn’t help Emma’s pulse at all. “You want to move in with me, Swan? Like later tonight?”

Emma laughed, reaching forward to rest her hand on top of Ruthie’s back “Yeah, I definitely want to do that.”

It took a little longer to actually move in – but Emma’s lease was almost up and that seemed a bit like fate, or so Mary Margaret announced while putting towels into a cardboard box and they didn’t unpack anything when they got to Killian’s apartment.

They ordered more pizza and drank shitty beer and set up Netflix and the last thing she heard before the door slammed closed later that night was David shouting _let us know before you get married, ok_ as the theme for Cosmos played in the background.

They did.

They hosted an engagement party and sent invitations by e-mail.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this got long and angsty and long, but, as promised, there was lots of making out. As always, every click, comment and kudos is just an absolute delight. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	8. A Fair, Even-Handed, Noble Adjustment of Things

It is, in theory, a good idea.

It’s nice and there’s something to be said for _giving back_ , particularly during a time when you’re supposed to be giving back and being nice and just...generically good. It will probably get her bonus points of some kind.

Although, Emma is quick to point out, to _herself,_ jeez, that doing any of these good-type things just to get metaphorical bonus points for life, seems to defeat the purpose of any of it. It’s a very convoluted train of thought.

And, really, she’s far too frustrated to be worried about bonus points or how many she has or may get if she continues to try to be good.

He’s talking to her again.

He won’t stop talking – incessantly _to_ her and _at_ her and behind her and to every single human being who comes into the building that afternoon, which, she supposes, is what you’re supposed to do, but...whatever.

It’s annoying.

And distracting and she can’t think about ingredients when he won’t stop badgering her. Emma doesn’t actually know his name yet – she’s sure there were introductions at some point, but she was trying to measure flour and remember a recipe she only half learned and she wishes Mary Margaret were there because she _absolutely_ remembers the recipe and could probably serve as some kind of human shield against this guy.

Mary Margaret would destroy him with positive and inherent goodness. Those kinds of thoughts probably aren’t helping Emma’s overall point total.

God, she’s the worst.

The guy is still talking to her. He keeps calling her _love_ like that’s the name Archie gave him when he, probably, introduced them at some far-too-early hour that morning.

She tries not to throw mashed potatoes at his face.

“What?” Emma snaps, twisting the wrong way and maybe she should get up earlier from now on so she can, like, stretch her muscles or something. “God, what could you possibly want right now?”

The guy – She’s sure he has a name. He has to have a name. It seems rude to ask his name. – quirks an eyebrow and that’s an entirely different brand of frustrating because it’s almost attractive and she hadn’t really noticed how blue his eyes were before or how the color of his shirt seems to, somehow, match and she wonders if he did that on purpose.

He kind of seems the type.

Talkers always seem to want to look good – like they’re aware that the constant stream of words isn’t doing them any favors.

She’s probably in the negative now with metaphorical bonus points.

“I asked if you were done with the flour, love?” he asks and his eyebrows don’t move. Emma wonders if he knows about points.

Or if, maybe, he forgot her name too.

That would probably put them on slightly more even footing.

She can’t even get her subconscious to believe it.

“Damn,” she mumbles under her breath, nearly growling at the bowl in front of her when she realizes she’s just started mumbling her internal monologue out loud. The guy tilts his head and his eyes flash and he looks like he’s trying to bite back a smile.

No one wonder everyone outside kept talking to him.

They’d been put on the line behind the counter for the breakfast rush, but now there was a lull and they needed more food and both Emma and _whatever his name is_ were, apparently, good at cooking – or so Archie said and Emma had no idea how any of this worked so she couldn’t bring herself to argue, just stalked into the kitchen like she was being given her last marching orders and set up some kind of baking corner on one of the counters.

The guy moved next to her, setting down his own ingredients and he seemed to be making...something.

Maybe she wasn’t as good at cooking as she thought.

“What could possibly be funny right now?” Emma asks, practically hissing out the words and that’s not very in the spirit of things either. She is the absolute worst at this. “Seriously...you…”

The guy widens his eyes and he’s not even trying to stop himself from smiling anymore. He’s smirking at her. Goddamn.

“Cat got your tongue?” he grins and Emma needs to find some mashed potatoes. She needs to get her pie in the oven. And find...God what did Mary Margaret always use? Marshmallows? They weren’t going to have marshmallows at a shelter that was barely staying afloat.

But maybe cinnamon?  
  
Cinnamon would probably be good on a pie that was, mostly, just chocolate.

Emma kind of wants cinnamon on chocolate.

She rolls her eyes instead. “What the hell is your problem?” she demands, the words coming out half like a shout and half like a sigh and it’s a weird mix that draws more than a few questioning stares.

“What makes you think I have a problem?” he counters.

She’s not just going to throw mashed potatoes at him. She’s going to arrest him. For something. She hasn’t decided yet.

She is out of her jurisdiction.

The guy doesn’t wait for an answer, just leans across the tiny bit of counter they’ve, apparently, both claimed as their own to grab a half-filled bag of off-brand flour. He starts humming when he measures, twisting his hand and flashing her a knowing grin.

Emma clenches her jaw.

“Seriously,” she mutters, tugging the bag back towards her and it’s the single most childish thing she’s ever done. She assumes it’s because the universe is trying to balance out her attempts at good deeds and metaphorical points.

And she feels better about the whole thing if she has something to blame.

“Seriously,” he intones. “I need that. Otherwise we’re going to have very thin gravy on our hands.”  
  
“God forbid.”   
  
“You want to put thin, watery gravy on turkey and mashed potatoes, love?”   
  
Emma twists her mouth at the endearment and maybe he really _did_ forget her name. She can’t rationalize that much either though. And she’s very good at reading people – has been for as long as she can remember and it’s good for work and, just, general life-type things, but now it’s as frustrating as the guy’s blue shirt and whatever it does to make his arms look the way they do and she wishes her stomach would stop doing that _swoopy_ thing at even the idea of him making gravy.

It’s idiotic.

And she doesn’t have time for this.

She’s doing this for the _goodness_ of it. Not to flirt with over-talkative, blue-eyed men who, clearly, do not know when to give up.

“I can think of several different things I would like to do with mashed potatoes and, I promise, none of them have to do with the consistency of your gravy,” she says, doing her best to make it sound like an actual insult.

It doesn’t work.

Because it is the single worst insult in the history of the world.

And the guy laughs.

His shoulders shake when he does, head thrown back and eyes closed lightly and it’s distracting in a type of way that feels kind of meaningful, but Emma is here for a _reason_ and part of that reason may be selfish, but she really does want to help and the idea of sitting in her apartment by herself, again, was just too depressing to even consider.

She can only handle so much depressing during the holiday season.

God, she hates the holidays.

And will hate them even more when David and Mary Margaret go to Connecticut to visit Mrs. Nolan and shower Leo with festive-type ideals and Storybrooke is already pretty quiet, but it will be even worse without them on Christmas.

Emma understands.

She does. She’s told David eight-hundred times. Every time he asks if she’ll be _alright by yourself for a couple of days_ and she nods and sticks her lower lip out slightly and he’s not nearly as good at reading people as she is, but David knows she’s lying.

Which is how she ended up here in the first place, with the weekend before Christmas off because both David and Mary Margaret claimed Emma _deserved some time_ and that was just some kind of flashing neon sign about how much time to herself she already had.

There are no flashing neon signs in Storybrooke.

The next week is going to suck.

Maybe she’d make herself an extra pie when she got home.

The guy is still laughing. Emma’s not entirely convinced he will ever stop.

“I can’t believe you just threatened me with mashed potatoes,” he chuckles, shoulders still moving slightly as he tries to catch his breath. “That might make this whole day worth it.”  
  
“Are you not simply satisfied with helping other people?” she asks and it’s petty and maybe a little bitter, but she’s fairly certain he’s using all of the flour and that doesn’t seem very fair.

He grins. “Of course I am, but I’m also very interested in your food-based threats and how exactly you’re coming up with them. Is there a system? Will you also try to drown me in creamed corn later?”  
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s impractical, right? Creamed corn is far too expensive. It’ll probably just be the generic off-brand canned stuff.”

“This is absurd.”  
  
“It was your insult, love. I’m just playing along.”   
  
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Emma grumbles, glancing around the room to try and find the chocolate chips Archie promised her when she told him she was coming and wanted to make chocolate mousse pie. She’s almost positive he bought them with his own money.

Chocolate chips – even off-brand and slightly less sweet than Tollhouse – were still pretty expensive for the shelter.

“You seem awfully hostile,” the guy points out, nodding towards the actual whipping she seems to be giving the whipped cream. Emma hadn’t even realized she’d grabbed that bowl. He was still hogging all the flour. “‘Tis the season or something.”  
  
She widens her eyes. “For being hostile?”   
  
“No, the opposite of that. I’m sure there are carols about it. And, you know, Ebenezer Scrooge.”   
  
“What about him?”   
  
“Bah humbug.”   
  
“You’re just saying words now,” Emma accuses and it draws another laugh out of him. She tries not to take a little bit of pride in that, really, she does, but it’s also a kind of nice sound and definitely better than the humming and whatever carol _is_ being played in the kitchen at the moment and she’s going to ruin the whipped cream if she stirs it anymore.

“You have to know what I’m talking about,” he sighs, shaking his head. She’s not sure if it’s because of her or that one piece of hair that seems determined to just artfully fall across his forehead.

She probably hasn’t been thinking about that since the introduction she can only kind of remember. She kind of wishes she could remember his name.

No points. At all. Ever again.

“I never said that I didn’t understand the painfully bad references you were making,” Emma argues. “Just that they didn’t make any sense in context.”

“I’m not sure if I should be offended by that or not.”  
  
“You can be whatever you want by it as long as you give me back the goddamn flour.”   
  
“We’ve been over this already. Thin gravy.”   
  
Emma huffs, her whole body heaving with the movement as she tries to reign in her temper and resist the very real urge to stomp her foot. He keeps smiling at her. “You know what I think you are?” she asks and the guy tilts his head again, an unspoken answer and she’s back on the mashed potato plan rather quickly. “If I’m Ebenezer Scrooge then I think you’re....you’re Jacob Marley!”   
  
It’s an even less-thought-out insult than the whole mashed potato thing. And they both know it. He practically cackles in her face.

“That definitely seems offensive,” he laughs. “Jacob Marley was dead the whole time. He didn’t even get a chance to repent. Just had to haul around those shackles for the rest of eternity.”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “That’s not true at all.”

“Excuse me?”  
  
“I’m pretty positive Jacob Marley makes it well known at the beginning that his whole chance at redemption is helping Ebenezer. There wasn’t anyone there to tell him he was a selfish bastard, so he tells Scrooge and then he doesn’t have to wear the shackles or hang out with all those ghosts outside the window anymore.”   
  
The guy doesn’t look convinced. “What ghosts outside the window?”

“Are you kidding me?” Emma balks and they’re both going to be last in line for the oven because they’re too busy arguing redemption arcs of fictional characters. “The ghosts and that mom with her really cold kid.”  
  
“Her really cold kid.”   
  
“Well, yeah, obviously. It’s Christmas in London and they live in, like, an alley. And all the ghosts are reaching out to try and help them and make them feel better about their piece of garbage lives where they never helped anyone before.”   
  
“I take it they can’t?” he asks. Emma strongly suspects he already knows the answer.

“Obviously not, they’re ghosts.”

“Naturally.”

“Anyway,” she says pointedly, trying to make a move for the flour and he actually clicks his tongue at her. She scowls and he grins and they seem to be going in a circle, but she’s got a point to make and, probably, the ghost of Charles Dickens to impress and Emma is nothing if not the single most competitive human being on the planet.

“Marley shows up on Christmas Eve and tells Scrooge he’s got this great, fantastic chance to fix his whole life and, you know, by extension save him from eternal damnation. I mean Marley was kind of a dick in real life too.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” the guy nods and Emma can hear the undercurrent of lingering laugher as clearly as if it had pushed its way into her ears. It’s a weird feeling. “Tell me something, love, which version of _A Christmas Carol_ are we talking about here?”

She blinks. It’s not the question she expects. And there will probably be no pie or gravy for the dinner rush later because they haven’t moved an inch in what feels like several different weekends before Christmas.

“Excuse me?” Emma asks. “What the hell kind of question is that?”  
  
He doesn’t seem surprised by the response. The muscles in his face are probably going to get stuck in a smile. It’s not a particularly bad look. “Which version,” he repeats. “There are, after all, several. Including a few different cartoons.”   
  
"I'm not talking about Mr. Magoo if that’s what you’re asking.”   
  
“I wasn’t, but I do find it absolutely fantastic that you’re willing to throw a Mr. Magoo reference into this conversation.”   
  
Emma barely stops herself from sticking her tongue out at him. She tries for the flour again. And, this time, he wraps his fingers around her wrist, pulling her up short and groaning softly when she twists around.

His incredibly solid, she thinks, and it’s the most absurd thought she’s ever had, but, well, he is and his fingers wrap around her wrist tightly and his thumb brushes just over her pulse point.

She’s having a hard time breathing.

And he is too – if the distinct lack of movement in his chest is any indication.

She can feel every single inch of him, plastered against her front and neither one of them move or breathe or look at each other.

They were talking about Mr. Magoo. _Jesus Christ_.

Emma’s not sure how long they stand there – days, weeks, months, the rest of their goddamn lives, maybe – but it’s suddenly over and she can almost see the shift when she glances up and meets his gaze and he blinks once.

It’s like a thin, invisible wall has fallen between them.

She probably shouldn’t have suggested he was like Jacob Marley. She’s fairly certain Ebenezer Scrooge never threatened to throw mashed potatoes at his business partner.

Bob Cratchit probably would have been scandalized.

“If you were trying to get closer to me, love, all you had to do was ask,” the guy grins, the movement slinking across his face and Emma pushes away from him with both hands.   
  
“God,” she growls. “Jacob Marley wasn’t nearly this frustrating.”   
  
Well, she felt bad for approximately two seconds. That’s probably worth, like, five points. She’s not sure what the conversion ratio of points is.

“That’s because he was dead,” the guy points out. “We’ve been over this already. And you never actually answered my question, you know.”  
  
“I’m trying to tune you out. I’ve got pie to make.”   
  
“See, now you’re just rehashing points again. You’ve got some time anyway, I think there’s a backlog for the one almost functioning oven in here.”

Emma rolls her whole head and the wall seems to get a little thinner or even more transparent and something on his face shifts, like the mask is slipping or something. She clearly did not get enough sleep the night before.

“What was the question?” she sighs and he practically beams. Like a flashing neon sign.

She needs to sleep for the rest of the weekend.

“Which version of _A Christmas Carol_ has ghosts outside of Ebenezer Scrooge’s window?” he asks, leaning towards her out instinct or maybe something else and Emma tries not to rock forward. “Because I can’t remember that happening in mine.”   
  
“Your version?”

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say.

Archie should have separated them as soon as he tried to introduce them. They’re clearly volatile or something and _definitely_ not Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley because they can’t work together at all and those fictional characters built some kind of...empire in _A Christmas Carol_. Right?

Emma can’t remember the specifics. Did it ever say what they did? They just...owned things.

She gets the feeling the guy next to her would probably know.

She doesn’t really want to ask though.

He hums, shrugging slightly and Emma wonders what part of the question was the wrong part. His whole face shifts and clouds slightly and he’s suddenly much farther away than he was a few minutes before and it’s like the entire world shifts slightly.   
  
The thought would probably sound as absurd out loud as it does in her head.

He’s stopped humming.

And they both move for the flour at the same time.

It was, probably, inevitable.

The bag rips right down the middle and, somehow, manages to explode everywhere – in her hair and across her shirt and Emma squeezes her eyes shut in a futile attempt to make sure it doesn’t go there as well.

The flour, clearly, has other ideas.

It’s fucking everywhere – as evidenced by _whatever his name is_ mumbling a string of increasingly inventive curses under his breath and Emma looks up to find him pressing the heel of his right hand into his eyes.

“What the hell did you do?” he asks and the frustration in his voice takes her by surprise until she remembers that they’re both covered in flour.

His gravy is probably ruined. Too thick or something. The thought is so absolutely _ridiculous_ that she actually starts to laugh, the sound rippling through her and out of her until it seems to bounce off the walls of the kitchen and they’ve drawn an audience and Emma can hear Archie asking what’s going on from the other side of the room.

“You look ridiculous,” she laughs, tears in her eyes and flour in her hair and she can just make out the quirk of his eyebrow on his flour-covered face.

“I look ridiculous,” he challenges. “You look like you’ve been hit with some kind of freezing spell. Your hair’s practically white.”  
  
He reaches out, brushing a strand behind her and they both freeze when they realize what he’s done and he’s touching her. Again. He’s touching her again. He doesn’t move his hand.

Emma tugs her lips back behind her teeth and tries to will her knees to do their job and they respond, which, honestly might have depleted whatever _points_ she’s accumulated during the day, but it seems like a fair trade when his hand is warm and his fingers are slightly calloused and she’s forgotten all about the damn pie.

“It’s not a bad look though,” he continues softly and Emma doesn’t have to worry about her knees. She needs to be concerned with her pulse and the absolutely non-human things it’s currently doing.

She nods, one side of her mouth tugging up and she’s a mix of confused and curious and kind of hungry because they’d spent all day making food, but hadn’t really eaten any and now she’s got this flour disaster to deal with.

She’s not sure the flour is actually the disaster.

“What’s going on?” Archie asks, finally making his way through the kitchen when none of the other volunteers seemed able to answer his question. “Are you two alright?”

The wall feels like a metric ton of bricks and Emma’s not sure anyone has ever pulled away from her so quickly in her entire life.

She tries not to be offended by that.

“We’re fine, Archie,” Emma promises, scuffing the toe of her sneaker in an absolutely enormous pile of flour. There was, apparently, more than enough in that bag for the pie and the gravy.

She’s not in the mood for food-based lessons though and she can’t really blink with flour in her eyes and she’s already trying to figure out a way to learn this guy’s name – and maybe, like, his entire life’s history – without actually asking about it.

Archie, however, is woefully ignorant in moments like these and they’ve only got a few hours until the early dinner-time rush. “Did the flour offend both of you at the same time then?” he asks, nodding towards the worse-for-wear bag still sitting in the middle of the counter.

Emma’s not sure who scoffs louder, her or the guy next to her and she tries to smile when she notices his hand tugging on the hair just behind his ear. His eyes dart towards hers and maybe the bricks melt, which she’s fairly certain bricks can’t do, but the metaphor didn’t really make sense to begin with and nothing seems real when she’s covered in flour.

“We’re fine,” Emma repeats. Archie doesn’t look convinced. “I mean...we both got flour in our eyes and I don’t think we’re blind. So that seems like a win.”

Archie looks vaguely scandalized, but the guy laughs and his hand falls back to his side with a quiet thud. “I’ve retained all five of my senses still,” he says. “Although smell might be off for awhile. I think my nasal passages are full of flour.”

Emma’s inching closer and closer to some kind of complete hysteric breakdown the longer they stand in that kitchen and all she really wants is to wash her face and just eat an entire pie on her own. Neither one of those things will probably refill her metaphorical point tank.

She’s clearly lost her mind.

“Well,” Archie sighs, crossing his arms in a move that’s probably supposed to look _in charge_ , but just serves to kind of pinch his whole body together and the tears in Emma’s eyes have started falling, leaving streaks down her cheeks. “Uh...why don’t you guys take a break? I can’t...well the best I can give you is new shirts and a chance at the sink in the staff bathroom to clean up. I’d understand if you want to skip out on dinner.”   
  
The guy looks vaguely scandalized. “What?” he asks, half shouting the word and glancing at Emma like Archie’s just suggested they try and resurrect Charles Dickens right there in Storybrooke.

“I mean, it was just an idea,” Archie mumbles, clearly taken aback by their sudden foray into _scandalized_. Emma does her best to read the guy’s mind. It doesn’t work. “We’ve got a good number of volunteers,” Archie continues. “And it’s not actually Christmas...you two don’t have to feel as if you’re obligated to do good by default. Plus, you know, the flour thing.”

Emma waves a dismissive hand in front of her, but Archie doesn’t look convinced until the guy starts talking again.

“We can handle a little bit of flour, don’t you think, love?” he asks, shifting his eyebrows to some angle that, until that moment, she was fairly positive was impossible. “Almost ghost-like, don’t you think?”

She groans. “That wasn’t even clever. And I thought we’d decided I’d been hit with some kind of freezing spell. Petrificous totalus. You’ve got to pick a reference and stick with it.”

“Ah, I apologize. I wasn’t aware of the rules.”  
  
_A flashing neon sign_.

“There are now too many references in this conversation,” Emma announces. Archie looks incredibly confused, rocking his weight between his feet like he’s not sure where to go or if he’s supposed to stay in the middle of his own kitchen when the conversation has, quite clearly, shifted to flirting.

“Noted, love,” the guy says and they’re so close now that she’s almost surprised their shoes aren’t touching.

There is flour in the way.

Archie coughs – staring a hole into the ground that’s probably the most awkward thing he could have decided to do. Emma rolls her eyes. The guy laughs. “Alright, well if you both want to stick around for the rush still, that would be great," Archie says. "You really should take a break. We’ll have someone else pick up here and then you guys can just focus on service once the doors open. Sound like a plan?”

Emma nods. “Yeah, that’s totally cool. I can…” She cuts herself off because she’s about to use _his_ name, but she doesn’t know _his_ name and maybe she never actually got any points to begin with because it’s so blatantly obvious he realizes what’s going on, she’s almost surprised to find that it’s not written in the flour on the floor.

“That’s alright,” he says, nodding over her shoulder towards the door behind her. “You can go first. Doesn’t seem very gentleman-like otherwise.”  
  
“And that’s your game, then?”

His lips twitch and Archie actually blushes and it’s all so _obvious_ it’s nearly insulting, but it’s been a really weird day and Emma’s fairly certain the flour is starting to cake to her chin. “I’m always a gentleman” the guy replies, flashing her a smile and pointing one finger towards the door again. “I can time you or something if that makes you feel better.”   
  
“Unnecessary,” Emma grumbles. “I’ll be out in fifteen minutes tops. You said something about a different shirt, Archie?”

He nearly hops to attention and the guy –  _jeez_ , this is getting ridiculous – tries to turn his laugh into a different noise. It doesn’t work. Archie’s eyes look like they’re about to fall out of his head. “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he stammers. “There’s some in my office.”

“Perfect. Fifteen minutes,” she adds, glancing over her shoulder when she starts walking away from the pile of flour some other volunteer will probably have to clean up. “Clock it.”  
  
She’s only half positive she sees him salute in response. “Aye aye,” he says.

He absolutely saluted.

And he’s not in the hallway when she comes out of the bathroom, exactly, thirteen minutes later, face free of flour and hair twisted into a braid after she tried to actually _comb_ the flour out with her fingers and Emma tries not to be too disappointed when she slides down the wall.

She tugs her phone out of her pocket, an awkward shift of limbs she probably should have considered before sitting down, but she feels like she’s kind of failed on the _do good_ front and whoever took over her station probably doesn’t know about the marshmallows.

Emma’s thumb hovers over the screen, but she’s not quite sure if she should be texting David when he’s, technically, at work and Mary Margaret can probably use all the quiet moments she can get and should really be sleeping and Ruby’s probably dealing with her own dinner rush a few streets over and...it’s a rather short list of people she can text.

“Well, that’s depressing,” Emma mumbles, knocking her head back against the wall when she hears footsteps and a quiet chuckle and he’s got two cups of something that’s actually steaming in one hand.

“You’ve got a habit of talking to yourself, don’t you?” he asks, taking another step towards her and Emma’s not sure if she nods or shakes her head, eyes far too focused on his left arm and she hadn’t even noticed before.

She’s going to be in a point deficit for the rest of her life.

She needs to get out of this hallway if she’s going to make any headway on this _be a better person_ schtick she’s apparently on.

He notices. Again. Maybe he’s better at reading people than she thought. Maybe he’s just really good at reading her.

She’s not sure which thought is more terrifying.

“Sometimes,” Emma admits, finally answering the question and both of them seem to exhale. “It’s kind of an old habit.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, something that sounds like interest and it’s a bit more than friendly, but not quite obnoxious. “Here,” he says, holding out his hand. She can smell the chocolate. And the cinnamon. “I’m going to spill it all over both of us if I try and sit down at the same time I’m holding it.”

Emma’s not quite sure what to do with _that_ , but she nods again and it’s like she’s been zapped with whatever powers _flashing neon signs_ have when her fingers brush over his.

He smiles at her. And sits down close enough that their shoulders nearly touch.

They sit in silence for a moment and she disregards the temperature of what, she assumes is, hot chocolate completely burning her tongue when she nearly gulps down several sips. It’s a mistake, for several reasons, but mostly because she’s halfway through her fourth gulp when he decides to start talking again.

“Jones,” he says suddenly, turning his head to his right and he sat down on her left side and Emma doesn’t consider any of the reasons for that until, at least, several weeks later. It makes her heart thud painfully in her chest even several weeks later.

“Excuse me?” Emma asks. The cup is burning her hand.

“My name. Killian Jones. You looked like you were trying to come up with a way to ask without sounding like you weren’t listening before.”  
  
She feels her jaw drop slightly and his smile widens and there are a lot of things happening in this conversation, but it, at least, feels kind of cyclical. “That seems awfully accusatory,” Emma says and it comes out like another accusation.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Not an accusation,” he, _Killian, his name is Killian_ , corrects. “An observation. Were you ever going to actually ask or just suffer through the whole day without knowing?”   
  
“You make it sound as if not knowing your name is some sort of hardship.”

The flirting has evolved slightly in the last few moments, shifting away from staring at his, admittedly, very good looking face into something a bit snarkier and Mary Margaret would probably click her tongue in reproach, but it’s actually almost easy and something that feels suspiciously like comfortable.

Emma ignores it.

Killian keeps smiling.

“Wouldn’t it be though?” he asks and it feels like a challenge. The shirt Archie gave him fits much better than Emma’s – it’s probably because they’re the same exact shirt in the same exact size, but it’s vaguely distracting all the same. And he knows that too. “You seemed to be having some trouble keeping the flow of the conversation going earlier.”

“Because you were humming. Incessantly. It was infuriating.”

He doesn’t laugh the way she expects him to, but then again she probably shouldn’t expect much from a guy she’s only just met. The whiplash hurts all the same. “Ah, sorry about that,” he says softly, tapping his thumb on the side of the cup in his hand. “Old habits. Especially when I’m cooking.”  
  
She was already interested, so Emma didn’t really need more incentive to be curious, but the little bits and pieces of information have her on conversational tenterhooks and she just wants to know...everything.

And she knows he’s not lying.

“How so?” she asks. She hopes it’s not stepping over the line or leaping over the wall. She’s drowning in metaphors.

Killian glances at her out of the corner of his eye, pressing his tongue on the inside of his cheek and Emma tries not to let her impatience show on her face. She knows it doesn’t work when he laughs. “You’re something of an open book, you know that, Swan?”

She widens her eyes and the laugh gets a little bit louder. “How do you figure? Also if you were going to use multiple nicknames why not just use my actual name?”  
  
“Then it wouldn’t be a nickname.”   
  
“You know what I meant.”   
  
“I do,” he smiles and she swears she can feel it in her toes. “And it was a calculated move. If you weren’t going to call me by my name, then I wasn’t going to use yours. Plus, as an added bonus, it really did seem to frustrate you a little bit and you’re rather adorable when your cheeks get all flushed.”   
  
It probably isn’t safe for her to widen her eyes much more, but her body doesn’t seem to care. “Why do you hum when you make gravy?” Emma demands, determined to regain control of the conversation and maybe her entire goddamn life.

Killian doesn’t answer immediately, like he’s taking his time on the words, but Emma is, suddenly, a rapt audience and her arm is touching his. Neither one of them move. “My mom did,” he says eventually, voice catching on the tense. “Or at least I think she did. I don’t...well, I was young.

When I was a kid she used to make this great, big meal on Christmas. It was a huge deal and there’d be music and carols and it was almost too festive, but I was a kid, so I was fairly certain it was the greatest thing in the entire world. And she’d hum. The whole time she was cooking, bouncing on her toes to the music and she’d let me and my brother help sometimes, but mostly I remember her just moving around the kitchen and, well, humming.”

It’s as if the room has shifted and the future of the entire conversation and the rest of the day lands squarely at Emma’s stretched out legs, sitting at her feet and waiting for her to say something...anything.

“That…” she starts and her eyes move when she sees Killian lick his lips. “That sounds really nice actually. And I don’t think there’s such a thing as too festive. If you want to get technical.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”  
  
“Getting technical?” He nods, a noise that might be an agreement working its way out of him and Emma debates her options. She kind of...wants. And it doesn’t really make any sense, but she was, mostly, at fault for the whole flour debacle and Killian is surprisingly easy to talk to. “Yeah,” Emma mutters. “I think we kind of are. I’m...I’m sorry that I didn’t remember your name.”

Killian makes another noise, this one more dismissive, but slightly more endearing. “It was early,” he reasons. “I promise not to hold it against you.”  
  
“How gallant.”   
  
“We’ve been over this, Swan. It’s bad form to react otherwise. And you kind of looked like you were being dragged her against your will.”   
  
“Ah, that makes it sound way worse than it was. No one was dragging me anywhere. This was, almost, totally my idea.”   
  
“Almost totally doesn’t sound exactly definitive.”

She groans, taking another sip of hot chocolate and it doesn’t burn her tongue that time. She assumes that’s some kind of sign. Mary Margaret would promise it was.

But then again, Mary Margaret believes in love at first sight and fate, so really….

“Why were you here, Swan?” Killian presses, knocking his shoulder against hers. “You obviously know people here.”  
  
He’s right – it’s becoming an increasingly annoying habit – and Emma knew every single person who walked in to help volunteer that morning. She knows their parents and their siblings and their entire life story and criminal history and none of them had that last one because nothing really happens in Storybrooke, which was part of the problem to begin with.

She just doesn't know Killian Jones.

That seems like a sign too.

“I figured it was a good idea,” she says. “You know...my day off and all that, to come in and help out and maybe make some pie. I, well, I had some time and I won’t be able to come in next week, which seems to detract from my attempt at being nice, but I’ve got to work and I’ll be on my own then since my partner’s going to visit his mom.”  
  
“Your partner?”

“Yeah. I’m the sheriff.”

Killian’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline and there’s a ridiculous amount of blue in his gaze, but he doesn’t actually blink and that seems like a conversational victory. “Really?” he asks.

Emma shrugs. “Why would I lie about that?”  
  
“I have no idea.”

“I’m very much the sheriff and I absolutely know everyone and everyone knows me, but, like I said, I had some time today and I figured…”  
  
“You’d be nice,” Killian finishes. She shrugs again. “Huh.”   
  
“That’s an awfully judgemental _huh_.”

“It’s not, Swan, I promise. It’s more of a curious huh.”  
  
She can feel her defenses rising out of instinct and it’s far more talking than she’s used to, but she hasn’t met anyone _new_ in what feels like several complete and slightly lonely lifetimes and Killian Jones has peaked her interest.

He’d talked about his mom in past tense.

“What are you curious about?” she asks slowly. She’s out of hot chocolate. That’s disappointing.

“You came here on your day off.”

“Should there have been a question there?”  
  
“Probably.”   
  
“You’re a God awful conversationalist, you know that?”

He mumbles something that sounds like _ehhh_ under his breath and reaches his arm across his stomach to set his own empty cup down next to him. “And yet you’re still talking to me.”

Ah, well, point to him.

“Slim pickings,” Emma mumbles and it works another laugh out of him, shoulders knocking together and she’s having a hard time catching her breath. “And I told you why I came here. I was...trying to do something nice when I could and I won’t be able to do it on the actual holiday because I have to work.”  
  
“Because you said you’d work on Christmas so your partner could go visit his mom.”   
  
She blinks, at least, three-hundred times. “Wait, what?”   
  
“I told you, Swan,” Killian says, all certainty and smile and _absurdly_ blue eyes. “You’re something of an open book. And that alone seems fairly nice. Not to mention the whole saving the general populace of Storybrooke.”

“I promise there’s not much saving going on.”  
  
“I think you’re downplaying it.”

Emma scowls, mostly to ignore whatever is happening in the pit of her stomach and in between her ribs and she still has no idea who Killian is or what he’s doing there or why he decided to make gravy at the one shelter within a thirty-mile radius of Storybrooke and any of its surrounding towns.

And the realization hits her suddenly, without warning, but it makes a hell of a lot of sense.

“Oh shit,” she says, far too loudly to be entirely appropriate. Killian starts laughing again. “That was your mom’s recipe wasn’t it?”

He stops laughing.

“How could you possibly know that?” Killian asks, but there’s a hint of wonder to the question that Emma didn’t entirely expect.

“I’m really good at my job. And, you know, profiling, but it sounds better the first way.”

Killian barks out a noise that might have been another laugh, but mostly just sounds kind of strangled and they’ve probably spent far more time in the hallway than they were originally supposed to. “Yeah,” he nods. Emma has no idea what he’s agreeing to. “On both accounts, or, I guess, all three, because, uh...you’re right. About the gravy and how good you are at your job.”

“Flattery isn’t going to get you any bonus points.”  
  
“That’s good since I’m not looking for any.”   
  
It’s not a lie. It’s the absolute truth and it catches Emma by surprise.

She’s glad she’s sitting down.

“After…well, after she died, my brother was still around, but it wasn’t always easy,” Killian starts, voice barely audible even in the otherwise abandoned hallway. “He was a lot older than me which was good when petitioning the state for custody, but not so great when also trying to work a job that could feed a fourteen year old kid and so…”  
  
“You ended up here a lot,” Emma interrupts and the ground shifts again until they’re sitting on the same spot and it’s absolutely _common_ in some kind of absurdly cliché way.

“Right again, Swan. A fair share of times before I was sixteen and could start really helping and so when he…”

Emma waits for the rest of the story, but Killian’s jaw almost audibly snaps shut and her heart sputters when she realizes.

More past tense.

“Oh,” she mutters. It doesn’t feel like enough. And his smile doesn’t quite ring true anymore.

“We both enlisted,” Killian explains. “As soon as I turned eighteen and it was a better idea than trying to scrounge for minimum-wage jobs and ending up back in places like this and it was good for awhile. Liam was going to get promoted soon and things would have been different if he was an officer, but it hadn’t happened yet and, well, you know how these stories go.

Guy far too good decides to play hero for idiots on a ship in a storm and ends up getting killed for it. And his other idiot of a younger brother tries to do something to fix it and ends up losing his hand and developing an absolutely awful attitude about just...everything.”  
  
“That sounds like someone’s professional opinion,” Emma mumbles. Killian’s lips quirk up.

“Incredibly good at your job, love.”  
  
She exhales, that common ground suddenly feeling a bit stronger and she moves her hand before she considers all the reasons she shouldn’t, reaching out to rest her palm flat against Killian’s chest.

He doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” she says. It’s still not enough, not the explanation or the understanding or the words she should have used because she _absolutely_ gets it in some kind of deep-rooted way, but sometimes the walls are still there and they’re difficult for even Emma to climb.

“That’s not something you have to apologize for,” Killian shrugs. “It’s...life.”  
  
“Yeah, I understand that.”   
  
His eyes flash up, but he doesn’t push with more questions and Emma appreciates that more than just about anything that’s happened to her in the entire calendar year.

So she decides to take another chance.

“When I came here for this job a couple years ago,” she says, “I didn’t really know anyone, but this whole stupid town is like one giant family and, you know, some of them are actual family and my partner just kind of...adopted me. He and his wife are honestly the sweetest people to ever walk the Earth and they just had a kid and he’s almost painfully adorable and so I told them I’d work Christmas week and promised I’d be fine on my own, but then they countered with this weekend off and so…”

“So you figured you’d make her chocolate pie recipe?” Killian ventures and Emma’s not even surprised. Of course.

_Common ground_ _and flashing, neon signs._

Emma nods. “Yeah, exactly that. And, you know, ‘tis the season,” she mumbles, repeating his words from before.

Killian wraps his fingers around her wrist and they’re still warm from the hot chocolate and she doesn’t tell him the rest.

She gets the feeling he knows anyway.

“The version of _A Christmas Carol_ is from, like, the 50’s,” Emma announces and Killian’s eyebrows shift slightly in confusion before the smile settles back on his face. He squeezes her wrist. “The one with the ghosts and the most accurate Jacob Marley.”   
  
“You have a questionable amount of opinions about _A Christmas Carol_ , Swan.”  
  
“Limited festive options as a kid. Although I always really liked the Mickey one. Fewer ghosts, more songs. Less...jarring for a kid.”   
  
“It’s a cautionary tale. It’s supposed to be jarring.”   
  
“You would know, Jacob Marley,” she accuses, but it’s lost any of its edge and they’re still sitting on the floor touching each other. “Hey, I have a question.”   
  
Killian tilts his head. “That hasn’t seemed to stop you yet, Swan.”

“Why are you here?”

“Was that not obvious?” he asks. “It felt like something good to do when I don’t start work until next week. It’s almost oddly similar to your own story, Swan.”  
  
She tries not to slide even further down the wall. She’s not sure how far she’d get – Killian’s fingers are still around her wrist. His thumb has started moving. It’s not nearly as distracting as she’d expect it to be.

It feels a little bit like a metronome.

It is, easily, the most sentimental thing she’s ever thought in her entire life.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she says quickly, waving her free hand through the air. “Work? As in a job?”  
  
“I think that’s generally how that works, yes. Unless this has all been a very big con, which, again, seems inappropriate considering the time of year.”

Emma’s mind is going a hundred million miles a minute and that can’t be healthy, but no one new _ever_ comes to Storybrooke and he was humming under his breath and didn’t get mad about the flour and there was all that common ground to consider.

“Doing what?” Emma asks, the questions falling out of her with practiced ease. “In Storybrooke?”

“You need to fine-tune this interrogation, Swan.”

“That’s not what this is,” she argues. He taps his thumb. “But...really, you’re really going to work here? In Storybrooke?”  
  
“So they tell me.”

She still has several dozen questions – the least of which seems to be just several different corners of her brain demanding she ask where he’s staying and what he’s doing New Year’s Eve – but she ignores them when a set of familiar footsteps returns to the hallway and Archie looks more than just a little nervous.

“Hey,” he says, hands stuffed in his pockets and Emma tugs her hand back to her side. “We’re uh….ready to start serving if you guys are all good.”  
  
It’s a loaded statement and Emma closes her eyes to try and regain her bearings. It doesn’t work. And her bearings are in a completely different state as soon as Killian stands up, holding his hand out towards her.

She takes it.

“We’re good, Archie,” she promises and hopes it’s not a lie.

It’s not.

They’re good and great and fall back into something that feels a hell of a lot like flirting after just a few minutes behind the counter – ”How’s the consistency of your gravy over there, Jones?” she shouts and he flashes her a grin that shoots straight down her spine and jumpstarts her heart and she wills herself not to think about all the _maybes_ for just a few more hours. “Don’t worry about my gravy, love. Just keep slicing up pie.” – and it’s not as crowded as it probably will be next week, but her feet are aching by the end of it and her hands are still a little prune'y from washing dishes when she pulls on her jacket.

Archie makes her take two slices of her own pie, promising her she _deserves it_ and Emma smiles and tries to feel like it’s true. She’s still lingering by the door, not sure what she’s waiting for and _that_ is a lie because her head snaps up when she hears another set of footsteps and the smile that splits her face feels as natural as drinking hot chocolate with cinnamon.

“Hey,” Killian says, taking a step towards her and ducking his head and it leads to immediate thoughts about the angle and the potential feel of his lips and they’re both decidedly dangerous ideas. “I...I was worried you’d left.”  
  
Emma shakes her head and her pie is going to be smushed because her grip is bordering close to vice-like. “Nope,” she mutters, popping her lips on the word. “Still here.”   
  
“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Right.”  
  
They don’t say anything else for a moment and it’s almost weird, but also kind of _still_ in the way winter is kind of still, just after the first snowfall. Like she can, finally, take a deep breath.

Until Emma says something.   
  
Naturally.

“I’ve got pie,” she says, pushing one of the aluminum-foil-wrapped slices towards Killian as if she’s trying to impale him with baked goods. “I mean...Archie gave me two slices and I’m only one person. So, you know...if you want some really fantastic pie.”  
  
His head is still tilted, hair falling across his forehead again, but he doesn’t move, just reaches forward slowly and pulls the pie out of her grip, smile soft and eyes _absurdly_ blue and they’re blocking the door completely.

“Thank you,” he says softly. His eyes flicker across her face and Emma tries not to blush again, but she knows it doesn’t work when his mouth twitches. He stares at her lips for a moment before his eyes dart up and she has no idea what he’s looking at, but she barely has a chance to try and figure out that particular mystery before he’s nodding towards her. “There’s still flour in your hair.”  
  
Emma’s hand flies up to the braid that’s only still half put-together, tugging on strands of hair like she’ll suddenly be able to see them without a mirror. “How is that even possible?” she asks, half to herself, but it manages to work a laugh out of Killian.

“There was a lot of flour, Swan,” he grins, leaning forward to tug her hand away and it’s like a goddamn electric shock rebooting her entire system.

His eyes go impossibly wide.

And they stand there for half a breath and a moment that seems to almost visibly stretch in front of them, but then Emma’s pushing up on her toes and moving and still holding pie and his lips feel better on hers than she imagined.

Killian hums against her, fingers pushing into her hair and her braid’s a lost cause, but she absolutely, positively does not care when his left arm wraps tightly around her waist and pulls her even closer to him as if he’s trying to make sure she stays there for the foreseeable future.

She slings an arm around his shoulder, skimming her fingers across the nape of his neck and the hair that’s just barely long enough to drag her nails through. He hisses at the move, but Emma swears she can feel the smile on his face still and he doesn’t seem particularly inclined to stop any time soon.

Emma does her best to keep her balance, but he’s got a good few inches on her and it’s not exactly easy when she’s actually swaying in the doorway. She shifts her grip on the slice of pie in her left hand, fisting the front of his jacket and tugging him towards her and that only serves to make Killian lose his balance slightly.

Her breath hitches when she bumps up against the door behind her and one of them moves their hips because, well, gravity is a thing and it draws a groan out of both of them. She tugs on his lower lip and his hand works its way under her jacket, a feat she’s particularly impressed with since it’s already zippered closed.

They’re both slightly out of breath by the time they pull away – or pull away as much as they can when Killian’s hand is still anchored on her back, under her jacket – and it’s absurd because he just moved here and he's still holding pie.

Emma shakes her head, exhaling air she probably needs and when she glances up she nearly falls over because _of cours_. They’re standing under mistletoe.

“Figures,” she mumbles, pointing up when Killian hums in confusion. He groans.

“That was not my intention in coming over here.”  
  
Emma grins, letting her head fall against his chest and it’s decidedly out of character, but it’s also kind of nice and his arm feels even better than nice wrapped around her waist. “Trust me, your gentlemanly reputation is still in tact.”   
  
“Good,” he says and she’s ninety-nine percent certain he kisses the top of her head. “You...are you on your way home?”   
  
It’s as cautious as he’s been all day and something in that makes several of Emma’s organs do something medically impossible. “I am,” she confirms. “I’ll be fine though. No need to escort me home or anything.”   
  
She grins and she’d never really fallen back on her heels – she uses her leverage to kiss his cheek and he looks absolutely _floored_ and she feels absolutely _fantastic_. “It’s Storybrooke,” Emma says. “I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

She does not see him tomorrow.

Or for the next six days. And David totally knows something is wrong because Emma is more or less stomping across town every day, downing hot chocolate like it’s going out of style – or so he tells her – and she asks about _anybody new around here_ as awkwardly as humanly possible when he’s leaving the station on Christmas Eve.

“Are you looking for someone, Em?” he asks knowingly.

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously not,” she lies. “Just...you know, end of the year and new jobs or whatever. Whatever! Go hang out with your family.”  
  
David wavers in the doorway, a bag slung over his shoulder and a look Emma and Mary Margaret have just started referring to as _super dad mode activated_. “You’re a terrible liar, you know,” he says, taking five steps back towards her desk and pressing a kiss on the top of her head. It’s not nearly as coddling as it probably should be. “And you’re really going to be ok?”   
  
“I will be fine,” Emma says. “Go. You’ll hit traffic and several different blizzards otherwise.”

He laughs and squeezes her shoulder, leaving her alone in the tiny station with her feet propped on her desk and a week of, probably, nothing in front of her.

And, really, she could have asked _anyone_ about Killian, but Emma is stubborn and far too aware of small-town gossip and she really thought it would just happen.

She really wants to kiss him again.

She almost falls out of her chair when her phone rings – the last thing she expected to happen in the station on Christmas Eve – and there is, apparently, a _situation_ at the docks and Emma’s lingering in the realm of decidedly frustrated when she drives up ten minutes later to find...nothing.

“What the hell,” she mumbles, kicking the squad car door shut and tugging her hat even further down her ears. There’s no one there, just waves crashing and boats bobbing in the low surf and she’s about to get back in her car and yell at Leroy for falsely reporting a crime until she hears a crunch of boots on snow and spins at the sound.

To find Killian Jones beaming at her.

_Like a flashing, neon sign_.

“What….” she mutters. “What are you doing here? Are you the disturbance?”  
  
He scratches behind her ear, coming up just short of her until he leans into her space and it’s suddenly impossible to breathe. “In a manner of speaking,” Killian says. “There was...half a plan. Maybe two thirds.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“It’s apparently quite a bit more difficult to run into each other on Main Street when one of us is trying to find his footing out here.”   
  
“Here,” Emma echoes. “You’re...you’re working out here?”   
  
Killian nods. “I’m still not entirely sure what a harbormaster does or why the town needed one in December, but I’m here and settling, or at least getting there, and uh...patient to a point.”   
  
“What’s that point?”   
  
“You being by yourself on Christmas Eve.”

She’s never really _swooned_ , but Emma imagines it probably feels a bit like this and her hands reach forward instinctively to make sure he’s actually there and real and he’s both. He rests his hand on her cheek.

It’s still warm.

“You’re a body temperature marvel,” she mutters, barely even considering the words before they’re out of her mouth and Killian chuckles, tracing his thumb across her jaw. “I...I have to work though.”  
  
“Keep your phone on. If there’s some kind of uproar then we’ll deal with it, but, uh...if you want I’ve got a couch now and several different adaptations of _A Christmas Carol_ and the makings for several different varieties of pie.”

Emma is somewhere stuck between stunned and overwhelmed and absolutely _falling_ in some sort of metaphorical sense Mary Margaret probably has a name for. “You really planned this,” she whispers and Killian hums. And she has no idea how the next few words work their way out of her, but he wants to make pie and watch movies and he was so good at kissing. “I...I used to go to those kind of shelters all the time too. When I was a kid. I...there wasn’t really anyone else around, which explains the mumbling under my breath and someone should probably have a professional opinion on that too, but I figured it was time to give back and…”   
  
He kisses her.

And it’s probably for the best because she’s not sure you’re supposed to cry _before_ the first date. She’s freezing – there’s a wicked wind blowing off the ocean and it’s starting to snow – but Emma doesn’t really consider any of that when Killian’s mouth slants over hers and his tongue darts against her lips and he holds onto her like he’s been waiting for the moment all week.

There aren’t any calls that night.   
  
There were never going to be any calls. And they make three pies and eat one and agree that Jacob Marley definitely got screwed in the afterlife and when the clock hits midnight Killian whispers _Merry Christmas, love_ in her ear.

They fall asleep on his couch.

And eat another pie the next morning.

And she lets him walk her home on Christmas night, tugging him back against her just outside her front door and she smiles when she asks “What are you doing News Year Eve?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was: In the spirit of Thanksgiving, how about "we're both alone for the holiday and both decided to volunteer at a feed the needy charity and yes, I do too know how to make gravy, love, you focus on the pie". With kissing.
> 
> Since I started writing this after Thanksgiving, it became a Christmas thing and it's real long because I am who I am as a person. If you're down, come flail on Tumblr or send some more prompts: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	9. Heart to Heart and Hand in Hand

“This was an awful idea.”  
  
“That’s a rather pointed opinion, love.”  
  
Emma scowled, scrunching her nose and they’d stopped moving at some point, staring at each other like they were staging some kind of vaguely festive face off and she was freezing cold.

It was freezing cold.

“It’s freezing cold,” she said, giving voice to the frustration seemingly growing with every single moment and every single bit of laughter and she understood why he’d done what he did.

It was, in theory, almost sweet.

No, that was a lie. It was, in actuality, very sweet.

Because she was in some kind of actual funk and it probably, maybe, _definitely_ had to do with the pink slip that had landed on her desk a week before and who knew there were still pink slips until Battery Bail, Inc. decided to use them and announce a new owner and a new reign, or so said the vaguely placating email after the pink slips, and Emma was out of an office and out of a job and….

“Excuse me,” a voice interjected and Emma nearly fell over. On the ice. They were standing in the middle of the ice rink at Rockefeller Center.

Because Killian was, actually, very sweet and doing his best to be festive a week before Christmas and a week before Storybrooke and family and she was just...not cooperating. At all.  

Emma kind of just wanted to...sit on the ice or something. That probably wouldn’t help how freezing cold she absolutely was.

Killian widened his eyes when her skates slipped underneath her, wrapping an arm around her waist and tugging her against him and maybe that was a little bit more than sweet. God, she was the worst.

She was so tired. She’d looked at so many job listings.

Emma was almost surprised she hadn’t gone partially cross-eyed at some point in the last week. And it was so cold. It was windier on the rink, she was positive.

“We’re moving, we’re moving,” Killian promised, waving his free hand towards the disgruntled security guard and no wonder he was frustrated, they were causing some kind of on-ice traffic jam. She hoped they were close to their time limit.

She was the _worst_.

The security guard scoffed or groaned or sighed as dramatically as humanly possible because Emma was fairly certain every single human in the history of the entire world was crammed onto the rink at Rockefeller Center and there was music blaring from speakers that were probably hidden inside those light-up angel _things_ and someone was trying to do triple-axels in the middle of the ice.

There was always one person like that.

And really Emma’s experience with ice rinks began and ended with the makeshift one that was really more a frozen and slightly dangerous pond in Storybrooke, but even then, there always seemed to be that one person who was positive they were Olympic-bound as soon as they laced up their skates.

She needed coffee or something.

No, she was already bitter enough.

God damn.

“That’s right,” the security guard said, nodding once like he’d properly exercised his power. He skated away.

It was absurd.

They still hadn’t actually moved. People were starting to skate around them.

“What do you think the qualifications of being a Rockefeller Center skating rink security guard are?” Emma asked, twisting against Killian’s hold until her own hands were pinned in between them. She nearly fell over again trying to sling her arms over his shoulders.

“Swan, you’re going to kill yourself,” Killian muttered and there was a hint of amusement in his voice that probably didn’t belong in the situation.

They were Grinch’ing. Or Scrooge’ing. Or whatever. And it was definitely just her. Emma wasn’t going to worry about the specifics. She was just going to be angry at the world.

Even when the actual angels were harking and heralding and singing.

“Ah, but then we’d be able to get off the ice, so maybe that was my great, big master plan to begin with,” she countered.

Killian deflated slightly, shoulders sagging just a bit under her arms and Emma absolutely felt like the complete jerk she was. God damn. Again. She was so cold. “I think we’re almost out of time actually,” he said softly, staring a hole into the minimal amount of space between them.

“Why do you think there’s a time limit?”  
  
“Supply and demand,” he answered easily, shrugging again and her arms shifted and they were definitely going to get kicked out of Rockefeller Center. “Plus, it’s way more expensive than Bryant Park, so they get you in and get you out and then they rake in their millions.”  
  
“God bless us, everyone.”

He flashed her a smile and for half a moment Emma forgot about the job, or, rather, the distinct lack of a job and let herself take a deep breath and she couldn't even really smell the stereotypical New York garbage smell, might have even smelled the goddamn tree a few feet away from them instead.

It smelled good.

And she didn’t mind the snow.

It was definitely snowing.

“I’m trying to reign in on the romantic tendencies,” Killian muttered, ducking his head and letting his lips trail across her jaw.

“The fact that you have any romantic tendencies at all anymore is astounding.”  
  
He pulled back like he’d been shocked or snow had fallen down his jacket and that second one was impossible because they were both so bundled up against the cold, it was a wonder Emma could even feel anything at this point.

She bit her lip, squeezing one eye shot and all she could feel was the hollow weight of disappointment sitting in the pit of her stomach. “If you want me to get that security guard over here again, he can probably kick me out for just, you know, being a jerk at this point,” she mumbled, drawing a laugh out of Killian and that was a step in the right direction.

They still hadn’t taken any steps.

Or skated. They probably weren’t supposed to take steps on the ice. That’s how people fell.

“I’m not trying to kick you out of anything, Swan,” Killian said and it sounded much _bigger_ than just, kind of, joking about security guards at tourists attractions. “The opposite in fact.”

She felt her eyebrows jump, sniffling slightly when a snowflake actually landed on her nose and something was going on.

She just didn’t know what.

She’d been up until some ungodly hour the night before, feet draped across the back of the couch with her laptop propped up against her legs and maybe that’s why she hadn’t actually gotten any e-mails back. The people in charge knew she was applying to jobs in an unprofessional manner.

And Emma probably would have stayed there for the majority of the night, clicking on jobs she wasn’t even interested in by the time it hit four o’clock, if Killian hadn’t padded around the corner of the living room with his hair sticking up in several different directions and told her _come back to bed, love_ with his hand held out in front of him.

She did.

After she applied to three more jobs she absolutely didn’t want.

“Yeah?” Emma asked, tilting her head and Killian was nodding before she’d even finished the question.

“Unequivocally,” he said. “Indefinitely. A whole slew of other adverbs.”

He was going to kiss her again. She was positive.

Until he didn’t.

And maybe she was a little sleep deprived because she wasn’t really sure what was going on when Killian didn’t move an inch and he always woke up before she did, but she wasn’t positive he actually fell back asleep once they did go to bed and... _something was going on_.

“What’s your deal?” Emma asked unceremoniously, pulling one hand down to tug lightly on the scarf around his neck. “Honestly.”  
  
“My deal,” Killian repeated, as if he’d never heard the words before. “I don’t have a deal. I have no deals at all.”

The music seemed to get softer and Emma wondered if she was just losing her mind or staging some kind of complete mental breakdown in the middle of Rockefeller Center and if they didn’t take a picture in front of the tree, Mary Margaret was probably going to riot.

“Yeah, you’re really selling it,” she laughed.

Killian paled visibly, eyes darting over her head and Emma waved a very confused hand through the air. “There’s nothing to sell, Swan. There was just a day off and a weather forecast that blatantly lied and...well you like Christmas.”  
  
She was, easily, the worst Grinch in the history of Grinches. Was there more than one Grinch? How did the Grinch come into being? Did the Grinch have parents?

How did he feed Max the dog?

And, usually, Killian would be absolutely right.

Emma Swan loved few things more than Christmas in New York City, the opposite of everything she'd thought Christmas was when she was a kid and there weren't presents or people or family, but then the Blanchards changed all that and when she and Mary Margaret first moved, what now felt like several lifetimes ago, she’d made sure to take, at least, three days off in December so she could see every single thing.

There were trees to critique and festive food to test and, one year, she and Mary Margaret had actually drawn a map of all the storefronts they wanted to see.

It was still hanging in Mary Margaret’s apartment.

They never went ice skating.

Emma loved Christmas and loved New York and loved both of them together and when Mary Margaret met David – during some kind of assembly at the elementary school she taught at downtown and he was wearing dress blues and talking about safety and the police and, well, it was like love at first sight or something – it only made sense that the Christmas extravaganza became a three-person party.

Until David brought someone else.

Emma was furious.

She’d shouted and stomped her foot and none of it was very mature, but their Christmas thing was a _thing_ and they didn’t need _new people_ until David pointed out that he was, at one point, a _new person_ and she had to give in.

So they met recent NYPD-hire Killian Jones, fresh to the 24th precinct from Boston, at Serendipity 3 and he mumbled something under his breath about the crowds and waiting and Emma decided to hate him – unequivocally.

It went that way for weeks and months and forced group outings that were somewhere close to tortuous – or so Emma told Mary Margaret at some point in July – and they bickered and teased and _sassed_ and Killian Jones was very easy to hate.

Until he was...not.

She was never sure what changed, what conversation did it or what look seemed to linger just a bit longer than it was supposed to, but things started to shift somewhere around Thanksgiving his first year on the force and Mary Margaret and David were so busy _being in love_ that Emma found herself standing in the corner of some NYPD holiday party with Killian and wine and smiles and they talked.

For hours.

With more wine. And more smiles.

He didn’t kiss her that night. And she didn’t kiss him. Not until Christmas Eve and it was, easily, the most cliche thing she’d ever done in her entire life, but he showed up at Mary Margaret and David’s apartment for some _other_ tradition and there was snow in his hair and he’d actually _baked something_ and Emma just pressed up on her toes and kissed him.

Hard.

He kissed her back.

And it just went from there – holidays and NYPD parties and dress blues and they moved into the apartment uptown a year and a half ago.

There was a Christmas tree in it now. It was, in Emma’s not so humble opinion, the best decorated tree on the entire island of Manhattan.

Emma loved Killian and Killian loved Emma and it was good and great and it would have been decidedly festive if she hadn’t gotten fired a week before.

God, he’d taken her ice skating. She was the _worst_.

“Did you say something about the weather?” Emma asked, realizing belatedly that the forecast had been part of his explanation. “And that it lied to you?”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes skyward, something that felt a lot like nerves rolling off him in almost visible waves. “It was supposed to, at least, be sunny. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do anything about the cold, but I figured if there was some sun it might almost even out and…”  
  
She didn’t let him finish.

And she nearly fell over. Again.

He was impossibly good at kissing – lips moving in a practiced rhythm and his hand heavy on her back, pulling her flush against him and if she weren’t wearing the hat he’d told her she _had to put on so your ears don’t get frostbit_ he probably would have carded his fingers through her hair.

So maybe they were just impossibly good at kissing each other.

That was a little less Grinch-like.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Killian accused, but there was a smile on his face and the amusement was _obvious_ in his voice.

Emma shrugged. “Yeah, well, if you get to be all romantic with ice skating plans then I figured it was time for a little quid pro quo or something.”  
  
“And here I thought it was an absolutely terrible idea.”  
  
“That’s not what I said,” Emma argued lightly and the music had definitely gotten softer at some point. Maybe so the security guard could yell at them easier. “I never once used the word absolutely. Just generically terrible.”  
  
“Ah, my mistake, Swan. It’s definitely different if it’s only generically terrible.”  
  
“It’s because I’m so cold.”

He pulled back slightly, smile still on his face and something in his gaze that like...set her whole body on fire. Emma tried not to blink. “I told you I couldn’t control the weather, love.”  
  
“Just everything else?”  
  
“I’m, at least, trying to.”  
  
“Seems like a pretty lofty goal,” Emma muttered, fingers finding the front of his coat and she couldn’t really move with the gloves she had on, but he kept smiling at her and her stomach kept doing that flipping-flopping thing.

Killian hummed, moving his hand up her back and Emma swore she could feel it through her coat and, possibly, into the center of her soul or something absolutely absurd, but it had been an exceptionally long week and she’d gotten, like, forty-five minutes of sleep.

“Even so,” he said. “An attempt is being made. We’re going to be festive. And romantic. A decided combination of both before we leave on Thursday.”  
  
“You know, you sound like you have a plan, Officer.”  
  
He beamed at her – brighter than the tree a few feet away from them. “It’s possible,” Killian admitted. “You’ve never been ice skating, after all. Seemed like it should be memorable.”  
  
“Color me intrigued.”  
  
“That’s the point, love.”

Emma narrowed her eyes, desperate to figure out _what the hell was going on_ and that seemed like the opposite of the festive theme they were going for, but the angels, had officially, stopped harking and they were being ushered off the ice.

Killian groaned, mumbling a string of curses under his breath when a different security guard tried to actually push him forward. “What’s going on?” he asked, keeping one hand on Emma’s waist when he twisted to glare over his shoulder.

“Just the usual,” the second guard answered and Emma had no idea what that could possibly mean. “Christmas in New York. At least it’s snowing. Makes it a little...more don’t you think?”

Killian hummed, but there was an air of frustration to it and he’d definitely gotten paler at some point. They should really get coffee. And hand warmers. And, possibly, an industrial size heater.

“Doesn’t it though?” Killian asked. The security guard made another noise, neither an agreement nor a disagreement and Emma wondered when the Earth had spun off its axis and into this parallel universe where she resented Christmas and Killian snarked at people on ice skates.

“Seriously, what is going on?” Emma demanded, but it was difficult to stomp her foot when she was still trying to balance on skates and they had to keep moving or they’d get run over by the crowd behind them. “And seriously where did all these people come from? Were all these people on the ice?”

“Nothing, love,” Killian said, rushing over the words so quickly the lie practically reached out and slapped her. She wouldn’t have been able to keep her balance. He mumbled something else, a string of words and general frustrations and she was momentarily worried he was actually going to tug his hair out of his head when she got distracted by whatever was happening on the ice.

Emma strained her neck, trying to see over the small ocean of humanity that had exploded between her and the rink and Killian’s hand hadn’t left her waist yet. “Are there people still out there?” she asked.

“Yup.”

She turned at the absolute _disappointment_ in his voice, lowering her eyebrows and he didn’t notice. He was too busy glaring at the Rockefeller Center ice rink.

“Have they offended you?” Emma continued warily and if she tugged on Killian’s scarf any more she was going to unravel it. Killian made a noise, eerily similar to that security guard and this wasn’t a parallel universe, it was a different timeline entirely, where absolutely nothing made sense. “And...so you’re just going to stare them to death?”  
  
“Or until they get run over by a zamboni.”  
  
She laughed. Loudly. And drew the attention of several different strangers nearby, one of which actually had the gall to _shush_ her like she was interrupting something.

She was.

The people on the ice weren’t just people, they were a couple and one of them was a man – who was absolutely going to mess up his jeans when he knelt on the ice.

“Oh my God,” Emma sighed and she didn’t think she imagined Killian’s hand tighten slightly. “Is this for real?”  
  
“Seems like it, love.”

“Did we get cheated out of minutes on the ice for this?”  
  
“It’s supposed to be romantic.”  
  
“They’re messing up everyone else’s ice times.”  
  
Killian laughed, but there was a hint of something else Emma couldn’t name just on the edge of it and she didn’t understand any of the emotions shooting through her veins or arteries or wherever emotions went.

She was annoyed and cold and she wanted to kiss her boyfriend some more and maybe get some hot chocolate and she was...something else she absolutely would not give heed to because nothing in the history of the world could ever be more cliche than getting engaged on the ice at Rockefeller Center.

“Does he have a microphone?” Emma asked, doing her best to keep her voice and her critiques as quiet as possible. It was obvious it didn’t work when she got shushed. Again. “Why does he need that? We don’t need to hear this play by play. Who do you think gave him that?”  
  
“Probably the guy who was going for gold in the middle of the rink.”  
  
“Oh God, yeah, he was the worst, wasn’t he? You think he was part of the plan from the start? Stash the microphone in his...leotard? Is that the technical term?”

Emma glanced around, trying to find their future medalist and he was several yards away in an outfit that he must have custom ordered and...his phone out.

She made some kind of absurd noise and Killian followed her gaze, arm shifting to move around her shoulders and people were recording this. They were taking pictures of it.

They were documenting some other person’s life moment.

“That’s weird, right?” Emma asked, glancing up to find Killian a bit more wide-eyed than she expected. “The phone thing I mean. I guess the proposal is relatively normal.”  
  
He twisted his eyebrows, one side of his mouth tugging up in a decidedly familiar move and Emma tried to will her stomach to stop doing whatever it was doing. And she needed that voice in the back corner of her mind to _shut up_ because this was cliche and she’d just gotten fired and she didn’t have time to wallow over something else.

They just needed to get through Christmas.

Bah humbug.

“Relatively normal,” Killian echoed, like he was taking particular note of _that_ part of the conversation. The voice in the back corner of her mind was never going to shut up. “And I don’t know about weird, Swan. It’s...we’re in public. Par for the course or something.”

She shook her head, the voice finally quieting when her mind turned its attention to _angry_ and _frustrated_. “No, no,” she argued. “That’s weird. Those people are strangers. They have no idea about this couple’s stories. They could be mass murderers.”  
  
“You think mass murderers are getting engaged at Rockefeller Center?”  
  
“Who else would be able to put up with these kinds of crowds?”

Killian scoffed, pressing a kiss to her temple, but most of it got lost in that absurd hat. Her ears really were warm – that was about the only part of her that was the correct temperature, though, and the rest of Emma was decidedly frosty and just a bit petulant.

“Ah, well, of course, who could argue with such a well thought out point, Swan,” Killian grinned, moving her hair so he could brush his thumb across the back of her neck. “Naturally those people pledging their lives to each other are only doing it for the murder chances.”  
  
“Does it count to pledge your lives now?” Emma asked, only dimly aware of what she was saying and this conversation had lost its footing on the ice, slid across the entire rink and, probably, broken its metaphorical bones.

“When else would you be doing it?”  
  
Emma shrugged. “During the actual wedding. Now just seems like...an IOU or something.”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s exactly how it works. I think it’s a slightly bigger deal than owing someone five bucks for coffee.”  
  
“That was oddly specific.”  
  
“You were going into mass-murdering detail about Allie and...Brodie.”

She nearly fell over again and that lady who kept shushing her was positively scandalized because Emma was close to cackling, head thrown back and worries about...anything except how much she absolutely loved Killian Jones forgotten as soon as he came up with names.

“Brodie?” she asked and Killian tilted his head, shrugging slightly and kissing her and the _shushing lady_ was probably going to get a third security guard to yell at them soon. “How did you land on Brodie?”  
  
“Some kid got brought in the other day for some kind of sneaker theft ring and his name was Brodie. I didn’t mention that? I definitely wanted to tell you about Brodie.”  
  
“You never mentioned a single thing about Brodie,” Emma promised. “I definitely would have remembered Brodie. And you think Brodie would just go from stealing sneakers to murder? Seems like a pretty big job.”  
  
“You’re the one harping on the murder thing, love,” Killian pointed out. “And I really don’t think Allie and Brodie are killing anyone. Look, they’re far too busy up’ing the rating.”

She was half a second away from asking _what the hell he meant_ , when Killian tugged her off her skates, pulling her up his side and ignoring her soft yelp and, well, she understood after that. Allie and Brodie were...what appeared to be two seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off right there in the middle of Rockefeller Center.

The future Olympic gold medalist put his phone away.

“Oh my God,” Emma breathed, shaking slightly when Killian laughed against her. He buried his face in her shoulder, grip not quite as strong when he couldn’t seem to catch his breath and it was some kind of romance miracle that Allie and Brodie hadn’t fallen flat on their faces.

That probably would have helped their current endeavors though.

“He’s definitely a Brodie,” Killian mumbled. Emma wasn’t sure her jaw would ever close again.

“Shouldn’t you arrest them or something? Public indecency.”  
  
“I’m not doing that.”

“Do you think Brodie paid to get us off the ice early? He must have told someone right? You can’t just ask life-altering questions at tourist attractions without giving the powers that be a heads up. That’s just bad planning otherwise.”  
  
Killian hummed or choked on the air – Emma wasn’t quite sure which – and he seemed very preoccupied by anything that wasn’t her face. Again.

“I suppose it probably would have been a good idea to let someone know what your plan was before actually executing the plan. Things would have gone smoother then.”

Emma had, at least, eight-hundred questions, but Allie and Brodie were still going at it in the middle of the rink and Killian looked slightly closer to terrified than she’d ever seen him before and there were, somehow, still people taking photos.

New York was the strangest place in the world.

The security guards didn’t seem to know what to do – huddled together along the side of the rink with walkie-talkies out and vaguely overwhelmed looks on their faces and Emma couldn’t look away.

Allie and Brodie must have done breathing exercises to build up that kind of stamina.

“You know you might get your wish,” Emma said, twisting slightly and Killian made a face when she tried to shimmy against his chest. “About the zamboni. They've been out there forever.”

“I can’t remember what I was talking about. Swan, you can’t move that way, you’re going to to dig your hands into my pockets.”  
  
“My fingers are going to fall off!”

He pressed his lips together, eyes wide and blue and distracting and she was still missing something, but he’d taken her ice skating and he kept promising how _fine_ everything would be, even without a job, and he was going to come to Storybrooke with her.

“Your fingers aren’t going to fall off, love,” Killian said, tugging both of her hands up as soon as she was back on her own feet and Emma nearly melted when he brushed his lips over her knuckles.

“That’s cheating,” she mumbled. He did something absolutely stupid with his eyebrows. “Is there a reason you don’t want my fingers in your pockets?”  
  
“Aside from how awkward that’d probably be?”  
  
“Yeah, exactly that.”  
  
Killian shook his head, lower lip jutted out slightly and Emma knew a _brush off_ when she saw one. “Nothing, love.

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Nothing,” he repeated. “Ah, look they’ve finally come up for air. That’s good. I thought that one security guard was going to try and teleport out of here.”  
  
“That would have been impressive,” Emma said, doing her best to find her bearings in a day that didn’t make sense and a conversation that was, decidedly, on the wrong side of confusing. Killian grinned at her, kissing her quickly and letting his hand fall back towards her hip and they were both still wearing ice skates. “Hey,” she muttered, resting her palm flat on his chest. “Thank you for doing this.”  
  
He blinked. “What?”

“Thank you. For...well, I know I’ve been some kind of actual Grinch and I’ve been so anti-Christmas and it’s just...you took me ice skating.”  
  
She was never very good at big, important declarations and her feet were starting to cramp because she wasn’t sure she’d actually gotten the right sized ice skates, but Killian kept staring at her like she was the most important thing on any holiday and, maybe, that was enough.

More than enough.

They’d be fine.

And they needed to take a photo in front of the tree.

“I’ve wanted to forever,” Killian said and it felt much bigger than an afternoon and a day off and one of them probably moved or maybe they just settled back in the correct timeline and Emma exhaled against him as soon as his lips hit hers.

The crowd around them dispersed and ran into them and neither Emma nor Killian moved.  
  
“I love you,” she whispered, barely moving away from his mouth to let the words settle and she could feel his lips turn and his hand tighten and she wasn’t nearly as cold as she was before.

“I love you too, Swan. What do you say we test out a different tourist trap?”  
  
Emma grinned, nodding as soon as he finished the question and they only paused long enough to take their obligatory tree photo before skating at Bryant Park until her whole body ached and the muscles in her face protested from overuse and it was festive and perfect and she didn’t even object when he put _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ on later that night.

They fell asleep on the couch together.

And she applied to more jobs and waited for another few days and she wasn’t quite as anti-Christmas by the time they got to Storybrooke later that week, sitting in the back seat of the car David rented like they were sixteen and going on their first date.

And the entire town looked like some kind of postcard, covered in snow and actual icicles forming on the sides of houses and the tree that was, always, inexplicably in the middle of Main Street was decorated with multi-color lights and ornaments that the kids in the elementary school made every year.

They stayed with Mary Margaret’s dad, a house that had defined Emma’s childhood when the foster home in Portland closed and Mr. Blanchard offered up the extra room on the second floor and she took a deep breath as soon as they walked through the front door.

It always smelled like cinnamon.

The room didn’t look too different, except instead of the small twin-size bed Emma spent her teenage years on, she and Killian were camped out on an ancient air mattress that she could only imagine spent most of the year in the basement if the lingering scent was anything to go by. It was the best she’d slept in days, wrapped up in brand-new pajamas covered in a pattern that was only appropriate from December 1st to 25th and Killian’s arm around her waist and she smiled when she woke up the next morning to find him still asleep.

She traced her fingers across his arm, brushing over his wrist and the back of his hand and she knew the moment he woke up, one side of his mouth quirking up and eyelashes fluttering slightly.

“Merry Christmas,” Emma whispered, propping her head up on one hand and grinning when he cracked up one eye.

“Is this a Christmas miracle, Swan? When’s the last time you were awake before me?”  
  
She shrugged. “I honestly can’t remember. Never? Never seems right. You’re just lucky I’m still here and not going through all the presents.”

“You wouldn’t do that, love, it’d spoil all the surprise.”  
  
“I hate surprises,” she grumbled, dropping back dramatically on the worse-for-wear pillows they’d found in one of the hallway closets.

“Ah, but you do enjoy Christmas.”

“That is true. And I think you enjoy teasing me.”  
  
“Do you think I’m teasing you right now?”  
  
Emma made a noise, shaking her head as much as she could while still laying down and she, suddenly, felt like she was losing some kind of competition she hadn’t been aware she was playing. Killian’s eyes were distractingly blue – and staring straight at her.

“I think you’ve been thinking about something since Rockefeller Center and you’ve been doing a very bad job of trying to distract me.”

He laughed, brushing his lips across hers quickly and...well confidently wasn’t quite the right word, but he was definitely winning whatever competition they were staging and he knew it. “That’s an awful large accusation to make, love. On Christmas morning no less.”

“Just callin’ ‘em as I seem ‘em.”  
  
Killian smiled, something flashing across his face that looked like _certainty_ and then something even bigger and Emma had been thirteen when she’d landed on the Blanchard’s doorstep and her whole life changed and she always got a little sentimental when she was back in that room.

And Killian totally knew.

“Speaking of seeing ‘em, there’s something we need to do before we go downstairs,” Killian said, rolling his eyes when Emma’s went decidedly wide. “God, Swan. It’s Christmas.”  
  
“I don’t think that makes much of a difference.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Tough crowd.”  
  
He groaned, rolling his head in between his shoulders and the certainty transformed into something a bit closer to nerves and Emma was far too curious for her own good. “This is not going the way I imagined it would at all,” Killian muttered, reaching up to tug on the hair that curled just behind his ear.

Definitely nervous.

“What isn’t?”  Emma asked cautiously. She sat back up when he moved, twisting towards their suitcases, stuffed haphazardly in the corner the night before when there were traditions to uphold and eggnog to drink and she was actually surprised they hadn’t tripped over them on their way back to the air mattress.

There had been a lot of eggnog.

And a lot of kissing.

Merry Christmas.

“This whole thing,” Killian admitted, laughing softly when he pushed a box towards her. “I’m blaming Allie and Brodie, honestly. I wasn’t expecting competition.”  
  
Emma lowered her eyebrows, confusion settling on her shoulders as heavily as several boulders and she couldn’t take a deep breath when the metaphorical boulders shifted slightly and landed squarely in the center of her chest.

Her hand started to shake.

“What?” she whispered, the word barely more than a breath. “I...God, Brodie is the worst name ever. Did he get charged yet?”  
  
Killian nodded, the smile shifting back towards encouraging and something she’d always kind of thought of as _hers_ when she decided she didn’t hate him anymore and wanted to kiss the daylights out of him at all times.

“I don’t really want to talk about Brodie now, Swan,” he said, resting his hand on top of hers and tapping his thumb against her finger.

A very specific finger.

Emma wasn’t sure she was in control of any of her own muscles or emotions and she’d been _jealous_ of Allie and Brodie and Killian kept staring at her hand like he was already imagining some very specific things.

“Yeah, no, that makes sense,” she mumbled. “I don’t want to talk about Brodie either. The real or fictional one.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You’ve got to open the box, love.”

She hadn’t been holding her breath, so the rush of air that came out of her didn’t make any sense at all, but she was admittedly distracted by the several thousand thoughts racing through her head and…

“You didn’t want me to put my hands in your pockets,” Emma exclaimed, the sentence coming out like the accusation it might have been.

Killian furrowed his eyebrows, trying to get her back on track, but she shook her head. She was the most stubborn person on the planet. “Swan,” he pleaded. “The box, love. Please.”

“When you said this whole thing and not anticipating competition...were you...were you going to ask at Rockefeller Center? On the ice? At Christmas?”

Killian winced and Emma wondered if it was possible for a human being’s heart to actually to grow three sizes in one day. It felt like hers was giving it a pretty good go. “See, you say it like that and it sounds…”

He didn’t finish.

She really needed to stop doing that.

Killian made some kind of strangled sound when she all but launched herself at him, knocking him back hard enough that he had to throw his hand behind him to make sure they didn’t actually roll _off_ the air mattress. Emma tried to shift, to get leverage or just get her hands underneath his pajamas shirt or, possibly, his pants and she grinned when he made another noise as soon as her hips shifted.

“Swan,” Killian muttered, fingers in her hair and feet planted on the ground and she probably should have let him keep talking. She was far too interested in trying to kiss down his neck and the shirt was really just getting in her way at that point.

He made a sound somewhere in the realm of a growl, kissing her again and his teeth did something absurdly unfair on her lower lip and they were going to draw a crowd if they kept making so much noise.

“Emma,” he said, open-mouthed against her jaw and, if asked, Emma would have sworn she could feel him everywhere. The box was sitting a few inches away from them. She couldn’t remember the last time he called her Emma. “Swan...you’ve...there was a plan here, love.”  
  
“More than one.”  
  
“Swan.”

Killian widened his eyes imploringly, brushing her hair away from her face when it threatened to fall in her eyes and Emma tried to remember ever being happier.

She couldn’t.

She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes closed, determined to push that moment into every single corner of her brain.

“Yes,” she said, an answer to a question they hadn’t actually gotten around to yet.

“What?”  
  
“Yes,” Emma repeated. “No matter what the plan. At any point, you know, just for the record.”  
  
He kissed her that time.

And they let themselves get distracted for a few more moments, twisting and touching and _kissing, God, he was good at kissing her_ and it probably would have gone on for the rest of the morning if Emma didn’t move.

She nearly rolled onto the box.

She wasn’t sure who made what noise or jumped quicker, trying to make sure things didn’t fall even more off the rails than they already had and the wrapping paper had gotten ripped at some point.

There was a bow.

He’d tied a bow on the box.

“I love you,” Emma mumbled, more out of instinct than anything and Killian laced his fingers back through hers. She was never going to get over this knuckle-kissing thing. “And just...yes.”  
  
“You have to let me actually ask, Swan, there are rules.”  
  
“Yeah? What are the rules?”  
  
“Apparently you’re supposed to mention to the powers that be at Rockefeller Center that planning on asking important questions or they’ll just assume you’re some tourist plebe and give some other guy a microphone and you’ll realize your girlfriend is personally offended by strangers taking photos of major life events.”

Emma gaped, lingering somewhere between hysterically laughing and hysterically crying. She’d lost control of her entire body. And emotions.

They were wearing Christmas pajamas.

“For the record, as it were,” Killian continued, shifting slightly until he was kneeling in front of her and she couldn’t breathe. “I wasn’t planning on any sort of microphone, vaguely X-rated event. I had a whole idea. The snow helped and I’d just whisper the question in your ear and there’d maybe be some kissing, hopefully some kissing if it went the way I kind of figured it would. And the one Christmas thing you’ve never done in the city seemed fairly perfect, but then the job happened and a set of rules I wasn’t aware of happened and…”  
  
“The answer would still be yes,” Emma interrupted. “No matter what.”

He stared at her like he couldn’t believe she was there and they kept getting distracted by kissing and answers that were slightly ahead of schedule.

“The question, Swan,” Killian reprimanded softly. “You’ve got to let me ask the question.”  
  
“So ask it.”

Killian nodded once, squeezing her hand and his shoulders moved when he took a deep breath. He shifted onto one knee. “Emma, I love you and I’ve loved you since you since the start. Even before you liked me, I think. And I’m not worried about anything if you’re here and with me and I am all in on this, love. From every angle and every depth and that doesn’t even make sense, but I’ve been carrying a box around with me for the better part of the last week, trying to decide if I could just ask you after dinner because I’ve wanted to forever.”

Exactly what he’d told her in Rockefeller Center.

She was going to swoon, right there in her teenage bedroom.

He didn’t let go of her hand when he asked.

“Emma,” he whispered, leaning forward until his forehead rested on hers and she could feel the words in the very center of her being. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she said and she might have shouted the words, but she was too busy trying to kiss Killian at the same time she was speaking and there were footsteps in the hallway.

She got the box open eventually, fingers still shaking just a bit until it became some kind of team-effort with bits of wrapping paper all over the air mattress. Emma’s eyes widened when Killian snapped open the top of the box and there was a ring and she knew there was a ring, but it still took her by surprise when he slid it on her finger.

He kissed her hand again.

And they made it downstairs eventually, smiles just a bit too wide to be anything except suspicious and Mary Margaret let out some kind of otherworldly screech when the lights of the Christmas tree reflected off Emma’s ring.

They took pictures and Emma held her hand out to everyone who asked for the rest of the day, an arm around her waist and Killian next to her and there was probably something metaphorical about all of it, but she was far too happy to be even remotely worried.

The air mattress was still, somehow, comfortable even two nights later, their last in Storybrooke, and Emma’s phone dinged with her first interview offer and it all seemed to settle the way things could only settle on Christmas.

Or, rather, two days after Christmas.

“Are you happy, Swan?” Killian asked softly, mumbling the words into her hair and she smiled where she was curled up against his chest.

“Yeah. This was a good idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hi, hey there - I have no excuse for this except two weeks ago my husband and I went to the city and someone got engaged at Rockefeller Center and I was like...why are people taking pictures of this? So here's several thousand words about that. This was also not a prompt, but this idea took hold and, again, here's several thousand words about that. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	10. Sharp Corners and Crisp Folds

She’s staring.

She knows she’s staring.

She knows he knows she’s staring.

It’s just that she can’t seem to stop. And if he unfolds another one of the shirts on that one table in the corner of the store, she’s absolutely going to kill him.

That is probably not the best way to start the year, but Emma is, well, she’s Emma and she’s frustrated because she’s by herself in the store three days after New Year’s and this guy has been wandering around for, at least, forty-five minutes with what only appears to be the very annoying goal of unfolding every single shirt in the store.

She wishes Mary Margaret were there.

Mary Margaret would know what to say – she’d smile and ask if he _needed help finding anything_ or ask _what you’re looking for_ in that sugary, sweet voice that always get customers to open up their wallets.

Emma is ninety-nine percent positive that voice is the only reason they are still in business.

It is, after all, a slightly less-than-usual storefront – just a few hundred yards away from the water and the docks and there isn’t much tourism in Storybrooke outside of the three months that constitute summer, but Mary Margaret had the idea and Emma’s not very good at telling Mary Margaret no and she was kind of sick of Boston.

She was kind of sick of chasing deadbeat criminals and nights that ended with handcuffs and muttered curses and, usually, a dress that require dry cleaning because deadbeat criminals were nothing if not painfully predictable and thought they could get away if they threw alcohol at her.

So she came back to Storybrooke and helped Mary Margaret open up a store that prided itself on _cute_ and _kitschy_ and wooden signs that promised _life needs more beaches_. And shirts. They have shirts – produced in mass quantity for the tourists that spend weekends at Granny’s B &B at the other end of Main Street and don’t think it’s at all embarrassing to be seen wearing slightly scratchy cotton with _Storybrooke Established 1894_ on the front.

God damnit, the guy has just unfolded another shirt.

She’s going to kill a customer, right there in the middle of the store and that will probably make all her resolutions null and void – although, honestly, she hadn’t really expected to need a resolution that included _don’t murder good looking customers on January 4th_.

Oh.

_Oh_.

Well, shit.

He glances up and she’s been staring since he walked into the store, but that’s the first time they’ve actually met each other’s gaze and that’s just cheating.

He’s stupid attractive – all blue eyes and dark hair and the leather jacket he’s got on is ridiculous because it’s so clear he’s not _trying_ , it’s almost as obvious as if it’s painted on one of the incredibly overpriced signs behind her.

He quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly and one side of his mouth tugs up like he’s amused to find the owner of the store staring at him when he’s just demolished half her clothing stock.

She’s totally going to murder him.

Maybe after she makes sure his credit card goes through.

“Are you going to buy one of those shirts or nah?” Emma asks, no trace of sugary or sweet in her question and the guy bites his lip to stop laughing at her.

Or so she assumes.

She can’t think of any other reason he’d bite his lip.

It’s going to take several hours to refold all of those shirts.

It will, at least, occupy her time for the rest of the afternoon.

The guy runs a hand through his hair, rocking back on his heels and the tip of his tongue joins his teeth, pressed into the corner of his mouth in a way that is equal parts frustrating and, possibly, the single most attractive thing Emma has ever seen.

She’s still not convinced she’s going to leave her own store without committing several felonies though, so really it’s kind of a toss-up.

“That depends,” he grins and Emma narrows her eyes. He keeps smiling, the confidence that’s rolling off of him probably matching up with the tide or something.

She’s totally going to kill him.

“On?” Emma prompts, crossing her arms and lifting her eyebrows expectantly. And if Mary Margaret was there she’d also bite her lip and mumble _battle stance_ under her breath to David and they’d both pretend like Emma couldn’t hear them.

“On,” he echoes, “whether or not you have anything other than slightly overpriced t-shirts that only seem interested in advertising the town we’re in.”  
  
She blinks, something that feels a bit like fury shooting down her spine and settling at the small of her back until Emma’s slightly concerned that she’s actually being tugged into the floor. That might get the guy out of her store.

He tilts his head again – until he’s closer to resting his cheek on his shoulder than standing like a normal human being and they really should have just closed the store for the entire week because Storybrooke is some sort of festive ghost town and covered in snow and no one except this obnoxious guy is going to come in for the rest of the day.

And if they were closed then Emma could also be in Portland with the entire Nolan family and Ruth Nolan’s deceptively delicious fruit cake and, probably, a lot of mulled wine.

She would drink so much mulled wine.

But she was trying to be _nice_ and _good_ and start the year off on some kind metaphorical _right foot_ and she told Mary Margaret she could handle the store by herself for a few days. She could. And what if there was some kind of sudden demand for keychains with people’s name on them and out-of-season beach towels?

It was totally possible.

They should stay open.

Emma could cope.

“Was that a no then?” the guy asks and his tongue does something again, darts out between his lips when his eyes seem to get bluer and he’s _teasing_ her.

Emma wonders if she can drag him towards the ocean without anyone else noticing.

Probably.

Everyone is doing something post-holiday festive the Thursday after New Year’s and it’s the last day of, what she assumes, is everyone’s holiday break and they’re probably all tucked in warm houses with gingerbread and Ruby keeps texting her to come over when she finally decides to close the store.

“Did you say overpriced?” Emma asks suddenly, as if the words are finally sinking into her brain or something less disgusting. He smiles – and his eyebrows practically leap into his hair, but his eyes dart down to her side when he notices her tightly clenched fist.

She clearly can’t handle customer service without Mary Margaret.

He nods slowly. “I did, yeah,” he says. “I mean...thirty-five bucks for a t-shirt seems kind of insane, don’t you think?”  
  
“That’s definitely a normal amount.”  
  
“For a t-shirt?”

Emma shrugs, but her mouth twitches slightly because he actually sounds vaguely scandalized and his eyebrows are still unnaturally high and maybe if she starts explaining the concepts of supply and demand this guy will leave her store.

She’s not entirely certain she wants him to leave the store.

She’s kind of fascinated.

She feels like she’s had an entire vat of mulled wine.

“I mean, it’s, you know….good material,” Emma starts and she’s not entirely prepared for his laugh, easy and loud and it makes his whole face shift, like even the idea of any tension in this conversation is as preposterous as a small table covered in wine bottle holders shaped like flip flops.

She huffs, half a second away from actually stomping her foot, and he leans forward, like he’s about to step into her space before he realizes and thinks better of it. “Right,” he mutters instead, the ghost of a smile still lingering just on the edge of his mouth.

Emma needs to stop looking at his mouth.

“Are you going to get something or not?” she asks, but it sounds a bit like a demand. “Because honestly you’re getting a bit too close to loitering for comfort and I’ve got backup on several different speed dials if you’re going to be weird about this.”

Mary Margaret would be disappointed. She probably just knows, has a _feeling_ or something, like she can sense Emma’s distinct lack of customer service.

The guy sighs, clicking his tongue and glancing around the store like a t-shirt that doesn’t cost thirty-five bucks is going to show up. “I don’t really see any other choice, honestly,” he answers, reaching forward to grab one of the unfolded t-shirts he’s left in his wake.

“Well, that’s kind of rude.”  
  
He snaps his head up and she’s momentarily concerned that the pinch between his eyebrows will be permanent. “Wait a second,” he says. “Did you say you had backup on speed dial? Like...police backup?”  
  
There’s an emotion to his question that she can’t quite place, but it reminds her of coming back to Storybrooke and several weeks spent sleeping on David and Mary Margaret’s couch and hoping she might be able to live up to some sort of expectation.

The prodigal friend, returned after years in the great, big city with her head held just a bit lower than normal and whispers following her and Emma hadn’t felt that way in...forever.

And this guy is practically drowning in it.

“Is this your not so subtle hint that you’re trying to rob me?”  Emma asks, leaning back on the edge of the table and she’s sitting on, at least, four different shirts.

He barks out a laugh and any worry seems to fall off him and this has been the strangest conversation she’s ever had with a customer or deadbeat criminal.

Although now she’s not quite sure which one this guy is.

“I mean,” Emma continues and his eyes flash towards her mouth when she keeps talking. “You’ve just been pacing around here for most of the day, destroying displays and t-shirts and complaining about prices so it almost makes sense that you’re a criminal. Honestly, at this point, that makes more sense than just about anything else.”  
  
“Did you come up with other ideas about me?”

She scowls, but he’s smirking at her and his eyes are distractingly blue and lying seems kind of ridiculous at this point.

Emma shrugs. “You were destroying all my very-well folded t-shirts. And not buying anything. In this store.”

“That’s because you’re the only store that’s open.”  
  
“Stop criticizing my store.”  
  
That catches him by surprise and she’ll probably think about that for far longer than she should because _stunned_ and _impressed_ looks very good on this customer and she appreciates whatever banter they’ve fallen into.

“Your store?” he asks and _impressed_ also sounds very good on this customer. She should ask him what his name is. Is that weird? That might be weird. She almost doesn’t care.

Emma nods. “Yup,” she says, popping her mouth on the word. He takes a step towards her. “And just, you know, circling back to this whole theft thing, if you are actually trying to rob me because I’m the only store open, that’s both bad planning and terrible luck because I really do know both sheriffs in this town and they like me so…”  
  
“Are you suggesting that you’re getting preferential treatment from Storybrooke law enforcement.”  
  
“Only if it helps serve to intimidate you or change your ideas about robbing me.”  
  
“I’m not robbing you.”  
  
“Then what the hell is going on here?”  
  
“I honestly have no idea,” the guy laughs. He’s still standing far too close to her and Emma’s lungs feel pinched, like they’re shrinking underneath her rib cage and she’s issuing empty threats because she doesn’t even know where her phone is.

Probably in the back room.

She really wasn’t planning on being robbed three days into the new year. Or, like, ever.

He shakes his head, breathing just a bit erratic from the laughing and the smiling and, maybe, standing so close to Emma. That jacket is so dumb. “You really know Liam?” he asks and she nearly falls off the table she’s still inexplicably leaning against.

One of her feet slides out from underneath her and Emma’s eyes go dry, widening to a size that, until that moment, she was fairly certain was impossible.

And his smile has returned to nervous.

“Yeah,” Emma says slowly, rolling her shoulders with something she hopes looks like authority. “He uh...he works with David.”  
  
“I know he does.”  
  
Emma feels like she’s spinning and that mulled wine she was only thinking about drinking seems to hit her a bit harder than she was expecting because her mouth suddenly feels very dry and her eyes haven’t actually returned to their biologically dictated size.

“What?’ she asks, but it comes out a bit like a screech. He clicks his tongue again and squeezes one eye shut and she’s really pissed off that she’s kind of endeared by it.

She can’t move. He’s still standing in front of her and now that she’s looking at him – or, at least, looking at him up close and not just lurking behind the counter while plotting murder – he does kind of look familiar in a passing sort of way, as if she’s seen his face before in picture frames or photos on Elsa’s phone and looks a little bit like Liam.

It’s the cheekbones, she thinks.

So, she’s clearly gone insane.

“Are you…” Emma starts and he makes some sort of absurd face, wide eyes and slightly teasing smile and she’d really like to move because she can’t really process all the thoughts racing through her head.

“He’s my older brother,” the guy explains. She knows his name. She _knows_ she knows his name. Liam definitely mentioned his name. Damn. God, she almost killed the younger Jones brother. “Killian,” he adds with a smile and a slight nod of his head. “You looked a little bit like you were searching for a name.”  
  
“Presumptuous,” she grumbles. It only serves to make his smile widen and his laugh does something ridiculous to her pulse.

“A hunch. So, uh, you want me to call Liam for backup? Because I can do that if you’re still on that whole robbing you kick, but it will, admittedly, ruin what I’m trying to do here.”  
  
“Frustrate me to death?”

“That’s just a byproduct, love, I promise.”  
  
Emma eyes, somehow, get wider at the endearment, but Killian doesn’t seem thrown by it – as if he just regularly calls store owners love while discussing police backup that is, in fact, his brother. “Ok, well, that’s stupid,” Emma says, doing her best to keep her voice as matter-of-fact as possible. “And what exactly is your plan if it’s not robbery or death?”  
  
“I’m sorry, did you say death?”

“You unfolded every single one of these shirts.”  
  
“I was trying to find a size. And a price that wasn’t actually highway robbery.”  
  
“Seriously, stop insulting my store,” Emma shouts, rolling her whole head and jerking her body slightly in frustration and she’s half a moment from falling off the goddamn table when she feels a hand land on her hip and he’s not wearing gloves.

His hand is warm – even through her sweater and she’ll probably never take a deep breath again.

“I’m incredibly interested in that,” Killian says. “Do you know Elsa too then? If you know Liam, you must know Elsa.”  
Emma rolls her eyes. “Obviously, I know Elsa. I just threatened you with speed dial police backup. If I have your brother on speed dial then I’ve probably met his wife.”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“Do you know David too, then? And Mary Margaret?”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “I just know of David and Mary Margaret in some sort of theoretic way that I only hear about when Liam updates me on his life on major national holidays.”  
  
“I think you’ve missed some of those,” Emma points out. “It’s January 4th. And I’ve never seen you in Storybrooke before.”  
  
“That’s because I’ve never been to Storybrooke before.”  
  
“Ah, well, that would make sense.”  
  
“It would.”

They don’t say anything for what feels like the rest of the year and Emma almost wishes the ocean would rise up and fill the entire store because that might actually be more comfortable than whatever silence they’ve lapsed into.

She takes a shallow breath in through her teeth, trying to reinflate her lungs and that can’t be the right expression, but she’s still got all these shirts to fold and Liam Jones’ frustrating and very attractive younger brother to contend with and she can’t remember if she introduced herself.

She doesn’t she did.

Damn.

“So…” Emma says, eyes trained on her shoes and his shoes and he’s still impossibly close to her. She hasn’t really tried to move. “If you’re Liam’s little brother and you know of David and Mary Margaret and Storybrooke, how come you’ve never been here before? You guys didn’t grow up here, right?”  
  
He lifts one eyebrow and he must have practiced that at some point because it’s impossibly slow and slightly disconcerting and Emma bites the side of her tongue to stop herself from asking more personal questions.

She doesn’t care.

She just wants to close the store.

Shit, she has to refold all of those shirts.

“Younger brother,” Killian corrects. “We’ve been over this. And, no, we didn’t grow up in Storybrooke. Why, did you?”  
  
The personal questions have, suddenly, gotten far too personal.

Emma nearly jumps off the table, ducking around Killian and she can feel his eyes on the side of her head when she moves behind the counter, resting her palms on the imitation wood until she’s convinced she’s well on her way to just melding into the surface.

He narrows his eyes slightly, which really isn’t fair because she can still make out the blue and the hint of concern in his stare.

He doesn’t even know her name.

“Wrong question, huh?” Killian asks and Emma hums noncommittally, propping her chin up on her hand. He doesn’t move. “Alright, let’s try a different one, you have a name?”  
  
“Obviously,” she bristles, snapping out the word. “Swan.”  
  
“Your name is Swan?”  
  
“Emma. My name is Emma Swan.”  
  
He considers that for a moment, as if he’s testing it out and she’s glad she’s still leaning against the counter when his answering smile seems to slide across his face. “Swan,” Killian repeats, lower lip jutted out slightly when he nods. “I like it.”  
  
“Well, I wasn’t going to change it or anything.”  
  
“I would expect no less.”

“You don’t even know me! You literally just learned my name.” Killian wavers for a moment, a contradictory noise working out of him and Emma isn’t sure she if has _hackles_ , but she’s fairly positive they’re rising when he looks at her like that. “Get out of my store,” she says, pointing at the door for emphasis.

“Excuse me?”  
  
“Get out.”  
  
He flashes her a grin and he still hasn’t moved away from the shirt pile. She’s circled back around to the murder plan. “I really need to buy something,” Killian says. It’s the last thing she expects. Or, well, maybe the last thing she expects is his slightly defeated tone and the hand that works its way into his hair again, like he’s suddenly slightly terrified to be standing in her presence.

Emma sighs, not sure what else to do when he sinks onto the edge of the table she’s only recently vacated. “Ok,” she says. “Seriously, what’s your deal?”  
  
“Excuse me?”

“You’ve got some kind of deal and I can tell you’re not lying, so I think it’s only fair that you tell me what your deal is and why you need to insult my store so much.”  
  
“I’m not actually trying to insult your store, you know,” Killian says and Emma nods, shaking her head when a piece of hair tries to work its way into her eye. “I am just…”  
  
“Super stressed out?”  
  
“Something like that.”

Emma eyes him for a moment – trying to find the lie and she’d been incredibly good at that when it came to deadbeat criminals, able to pick out the falsehood as soon as the words were out of their mouth, but she’s fairly positive Killian isn’t lying and she can’t remember Liam mentioning anything about his brother coming home.

“So tell me why,” Emma suggests. At least she tries to suggest it. It definitely comes out more like a command, but Killian’s eyes flash up towards her when she jumps onto the edge of the counter.

It’s good Mary Margaret isn’t there. She wouldn’t approve of the things Emma is doing to the furniture.

Or the flirting.

Maybe.

They’re still kind of just...bantering.

“Two minutes ago you were threatening to call the cops on me and now you want to know my life story?” Killian asks, stretching his legs out in front of him. It’s far too much black clothing. God, that jacket is honestly the dumbest thing she’s ever seen in her life.

“I mean maybe not your whole life story,” Emma says. “Just, you know, the high points and how you ended up in Storybrooke destroying t-shirt stock. Also I issued that threat before I realized your brother was fifty percent of the police presence in this town and the other fifty percent is forty-five minutes away without traffic, presumably eating a shit ton of fruitcake.”  
  
“Fruitcake?”  
  
Emma nods. “Ruth makes really good fruitcake.”  
  
“That seems like an oxymoron.”  
  
“That’s because you’ve never met Ruth Nolan.”

Killian laughs, closing his eyes lightly when his hand lands on a rumpled shirt. “I can help you refold those. It was admittedly a kind of dick move.”  
  
“A total dick move,” she agrees and she’s almost surprised to find she’s smiling. Almost. He’s very easy to talk to. “How come you’re here and stressed and not doing adorable Jones family things with Liam and Elsa and Aidan?”

“You know Aidan?” Killian asks. The question sounds as if he’s asking Emma how to walk to the moon.

She nods slowly. “I live in this town.”  
  
“Right, right, right,” he mumbles, hand back in his hair and tension obvious in his shoulders. “Cute kid, right?”  
  
“I mean he could probably win some awards, but, again, you haven’t met the Nolan family, so I don’t think you have all the facts about the cute kids in Storybrooke or their painfully adorable traditions with their law-abiding parents.”  
  
“Are you suggesting that I would pick a kid who wasn’t my nephew?”  
Emma shrugs. “Again, I really like you’re deflecting telling me your life story, or at the least the high points, so if we’re not going to get to some sort of point here soon, then you really need to get out of my store so I can go home.”  
  
“Where’s home?”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”  
  
Killian grins, but it’s not quite as certain as it’s been before and this conversation is like some kind of roller coaster with a questionable number of corkscrews and a ride attendant who didn’t advise Emma to take her flip flops off before it started.

She feels like her flip flops have fallen off.

It’s a very convoluted metaphor.

“Just curious,” he says. “If I’m going to provide an entire life story then there should be some give and take, don’t you think?”

Emma’s half a moment from yelling at him or punching him or tugging on the sides of that ridiculous well-tailored jacket and kissing him until he can’t see straight – so, naturally, she doesn’t move. She digs her heels into the front of the counter again, crossing one leg over the other and it’s a precarious position, but she’s on a metaphor roll so it kind of makes sense.

“High points,” she repeats. “I’m not looking for your social security number or what you brought to school for lunch in fourth grade.”  
  
“All of fourth grade? You think I brought the same lunch every day?”  
  
“You’re really a very frustrating person, you know that?”

Killian shrugs, smile tugging on the ends of his mouth. It’s a good look. “It’s been suggested that may be true, yes,” he says. “But it’s mostly coming from overpaid defense lawyers.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what? You’re a lawyer?”

“Was.”  
  
“Was? How is that possible? Oh shit, did you get disbarred?”  
  
“No, no, no, nothing like that,” Killian says quickly, waving his hand through the air and it’s the first time Emma realizes there is only one hand and her eyes widen before she can do anything about it. He tries to meet her gaze with something that resembles a smile, but it doesn’t really work and she can’t really hear him when he talks, the rushing in her ears far too loud.

“I am very confused,” Emma admits. He smiles at that. “How can there be past tense if you haven’t been disbarred?”  
  
“You’re rather well acquainted with the lingo, aren’t you Swan?”

“I didn’t always own this retail paradise.”  
  
Killian's eyebrows jump up his forehead so quickly she’s nervous there will actually be skid marks left in their wake, but he doesn’t ask anymore questions and that seems like some kind of conversational milestone.

“We’ll circle back around to that,” he promises. “But, no, to answer your question, I haven’t been disbarred. Just...fired.”  
  
“Lose a case?”  
  
“More like the democratic system decided my services were no longer necessary under the regime of a brand-new district attorney.”  
  
“That sounded a little bitter,” Emma says and Killian’s nodding before she’s even finished the sentence.

“Oh, it’s incredibly bitter, but, you know, that’s how the Constitution works.”  
  
“Is it?”  
  
“Kind of.”

Emma hums, laughing under her breath and there’s something fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She’s being charmed by this. That was not part of the plan. She really did want to murder him before.

“Ok,” she says, trying to process all of this without actually writing it down. “So you were an ADA in…”  
  
“Manhattan.”  
  
She makes a face that’s somewhere between teasing and genuinely impressed and the tips of Killian’s ears go red. “How very Law & Order of you. And now...you’re what? In Storybrooke a week and a half after appropriate familial visits to…”  
  
“Tell my brother and his, as previously discussed, adorable family that I am without a job and, as of this morning, out of an apartment and would very much appreciate his guest room for the next week before I can get into the new place I’ve got in Portland.”  
  
“Portland?” Emma parrots and Killian makes some kind of noise that sounds like an agreement. “As in like Portland, Maine and forty-five minutes away from here?”  
  
“One and the same.”  
  
“To do lawyer-type things?”  
  
“I don’t think Nemo would lie.”  
  
“Who’s Nemo?” Emma asks, the question falling out of her quickly and immediately and she’s asking way too many questions. She’s far too curious.

And maybe she’s interested in more than just the high points.

“You really don’t know much about Liam before he landed in Storybrooke, do you?” Killian mutters, almost as if he’s talking to himself and she still hasn’t gotten an answer regarding his attack on the t-shirts.

“I know Liam the same way you know David and Mary Margaret,” Emma explains. “I, uh...well I didn’t grow up in Storybrooke, but I lived her for awhile when I was a kid and Mary Margaret just kind of...decided she was going to be my friend until the end of time or something. So when I came back here and she wanted to do this…”

She waves a hand in front of her and Killian hasn’t blinked in days, she’s positive. “It just kind of made sense to go in with her on the store. And really we do great during the summer with the beach people and the tourists and those shirts you were critiquing sell like something less lame than hotcakes from Memorial Day until Labor Day.”  
  
“I think hotcakes is a more than acceptable phrase, Swan,” Killian says. Emma tries to take a deep breath. “How long has this been yours?”  
  
“Three years.”

Killian lets out a low whistle, glancing around like he’s doing inventory and his eyes flit towards the keychain stand. “Three years, so that’s two years after Liam got here.”  
  
“And I’ve never met you once. Weird, don’t you think?”

“I’ve been kind of busy.”

“Apparently,” Emma muses, shaking her hair off her shoulders. “So…”  
  
“So?”

Emma makes a noise that’s inching dangerously close to a growl and Killian’s smirk turns teasing, crossing his arms lightly and twisting his legs until he looks a bit more like a human pretzel sitting on top of her unfolded shirts.

She wonders what he’s doing later.

Or like...before he moves to Portland.

In a week.

After he’s done living on Liam’s couch.

“So...you’re in my store today because?” she prompts and he mumbles an _ahh_ in the back of his throat. “That was the high point I was mostly interested in. Also how did you end up an ADA?”

Killian’s mouth quirks and his lips slightly. “I filled out an application.”  
  
“Wow, you’re really just a sarcastic ass, aren’t you?”  
  
His laugh catches her by surprise – like it’s bouncing off the walls and jumpstarting the heat that’s been less-than-impressive all afternoon and, maybe, folded up all those shirts. She really needs to fold up those shirts.

Maybe she’ll look up a mulled wine recipe later on.

“Again, I usually only hear that overpaid defense attornies whose grasp of the law is flimsy at best, but it’s almost attractive in this situation.”

Emma glares at him. “Almost?”

She’s clearly lost her grasp on the conversation – and her curiosity has gotten the better of her because he still hasn’t told an actual lie and he’s grinning like several different literary cats and whatever is flitting around her stomach is making it very difficult to focus on anything except how warm his hand was.

“Definitely?” he chances and she shrugs. The smirk is a grin and every inch of her is on fire and maybe she’ll skip the mulled wine and just jump straight into the ocean or something. “You really don’t know how Liam ended up in Storybrooke? Or...anything about me?”  
  
“Should I?”

Killian mutters something that sounds like _ehhhh_ letting his eyes flutter shut and Emma feels like something is gnawing at the back of her brain.

She tries to rack her memories and David’s explanations and Mary Margaret’s promises that _everyone in Storybrooke is great_ and she’s fairly positive Liam Jones, pride of this inexplicably tiny town in Maine, is not a mass murderer in disguise.

She’s fairly certain this story is, possibly, more depressing.

“Liam and I bounced around a lot when were kids,” Killian explains. “Army brats, pulled from place to place and base to base and we grew up everywhere so it never really surprised me when he landed here. But, uh...well our Dad wasn’t really…”  
  
“A dick?” Emma asks and she breathes a little easier when it works a laugh out of him.

Killian nods. “An exceptionally large dick, in fact. Dishonorably discharged when they found out he was trying to run some kind of investment ring that I’m fairly certain was just a glorified pyramid scheme for just-enlisted guys and well, that was that.”  
  
“That was that?” Emma repeats and the words sounds wrong, even as she’s saying them. There’s more to this story.

She knows it.

Killian makes a face – one side of his mouth tugged up and his shoulders as stiff as they’ve been since he walked into the store and his hand is toying with the hem of one of the shirts.

“So they say,” Killian mutters, a note of bitterness in his voice that’s almost understandable a few days removed from the start of the new year. “He, uh...well dishonorable discharge is, you know, there’s jail time and two kids and we bounced around some more and then tried to spite him by joining the Navy instead of the Army.”

Emma hears herself gasp, knows she’s made a noise when Killian’s eyes dart towards hers and she winces at the look on his face. “You didn’t know that,” he says. It’s not a question.

“No,” she whispers. “David’s not much of a gossip. I’m surprised Mary Margaret didn’t tell me though. You can’t tell her anything.”  
  
“That’s good to know.”  
  
“So… you were both in the Navy?”  
  
Killian hums, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “There wasn’t really anywhere else to go and we’d grown up around it, or kind of, so it made sense. Only sometimes the world really enjoys its irony because I got hurt and it didn’t even happen on the water. There was a car and alcohol and it was all very stereotypical and an inquiry because neither one of us was driving the car, even though we were the ones who got hit, and...that was that.”  
  
“As they say,” Emma mutters.

He grins at her. “There’s not much for me to do on a ship anymore and they couldn’t really just kick me out, but I’d had enough. I was done as soon as they discharged me from the hospital.”  
  
“And you just became an attorney.”  
  
He doesn’t say anything immediately and his gaze drifts back towards the keychains and Emma tries not to ask any questions.

It’s not as easy as it probably should be.

She waits anyway.

“I wanted to do something good,” Killian says eventually, voice strained and words mumbled and Emma’s heart explodes out of her chest. It feels that way, at least. “Help someone, if I could, but the new DA and I don’t see quite eye to eye and here I am.”

Emma nods, sliding off the edge of the counter and she’s apparently forgotten the square footage of her own store because she’s suddenly standing in front of him. “Here you are,” she mumbles. “Ruining t-shirt displays.”  
  
“I really am sorry about that,” he says, voice low and gruff and she can’t believe she just thought that about another human being’s voice. He sounds...embarrassed? Nervous? Cautious? Cautious. He sounds cautious. “And the offer to help refold them wasn’t unfounded. You’ll find I’m very good at crisp corners, Swan.”  
  
“Navy?”  
  
“Navy.”

“Were you going to explain that?”  
  
Killian’s eyes widen and the _cautious_ is practically radiating out of him. Emma can feel it. Or maybe she can just feel him – she doesn’t remember resting her hand on his knee. “Didn’t we just do that?” he asks. “The Navy and the sob story and all of that?”

“It wasn’t a sob story,” she says before she can stop himself and he’s going to sprain his eyebrows or something. “It was...a nice story. Could be a great story if you really do help fold up the shirts and tell me why you were so intent on finding a specific size.”

He visibly exhales, shoulders sagging a bit and tongue darting out between his lips – which is problematic since she’s still got her hand on his knee and Emma suddenly finds herself wondering what his lips would feel like on hers and maybe the t-shirts will look even better after he’s done folding them.

It’s the worst metaphor she’s ever thought of.

“I’m really going to fold up the shirts,” Killian promises. She believes him. “And I was…”  
  
It hits her suddenly and without warning and she doesn’t appreciate either one, particularly when she sighs dramatically because it is a little _sob story_ when she realizes.

“Liam doesn’t know you're here at all yet, does he?” Emma asks and Killian squeezes both his eyes shut. He shakes his head slowly. “Ok, so who’s Nemo?” she continues. “And were you just going to buy Liam a shirt from the town he’s literally the sheriff of to...butter him up?”

Killian’s eyes snap open and he looks somewhere torn between offended and scandalized and Emma’s tightens her hand out of instinct. Or want or whatever. It doesn’t matter. “The shirt wasn’t for Liam,” he says. “Are you a mind reader?”  
  
“If I was I wouldn’t be asking so many questions.”  
  
He considers that for a moment, humming softly when he seems to agree with her and his smile is absurd. “Nemo is also former Navy, current lawyer with a private practice in Portland that he’s been trying to get me to join for what has felt like several decades,” Killian explains. “And you’re right, Liam doesn’t know. Elsa knows, but that might be because I’m also fairly convinced she’s a mind reader. The shirt was for Aidan because I’ve missed nearly every Christmas and usually they come see me so they can do vaguely festive things in the city, but they didn’t this year since…”  
  
“You haven’t told them about the job,” Emma finishes and Killian nods again. “Did you not have presents before? It’s January 4th.”  
  
“You’ve told me the date several times now, love. I think I’ve figured out it’s more than a week after Christmas. But, uh, at the risk of sounding like a complete cooperate asshole, the holiday kind of slipped my mind before and I was far too busy being bitter to will myself out in the city with all those tourists.”  
  
“That’s actually almost understandable,” Emma admits and his smile falls back into smirk and she’s slightly concerned the butterflies in her stomach are going to explode out her mouth. That’d probably be gross. “You really can’t show up empty-handed for Aidan. Total dick move.”  
  
“My speciality.”  
  
“Ah, I don’t know. You did offer to fix the shirts and now you’re trying to be, like, super uncle or whatever. It’s almost nice.”  
  
“Almost,” he echoes, a flash of something that makes the butterflies flutter faster or explode or is just, like, steroids for the butterflies. “You really were the only store open, Swan.”

“A rousing review.”  
  
“I’m mostly saying that I wasn’t trying to bother you,” Killian amends. “I’m just trying to find something a cute kid who deserves several dozen Christmas presents would enjoy with limited options. Why are you open today, by the way?”

Emma shrugs, which is about as good an answer as she can come up with, but Killian just smiles wider and his eyes get brighter and she still hasn’t moved her hand. He’s moved _his_ hand – heavy on the curve of her hip and she’s suddenly struggling to breathe at a consistent level.

“Under oath?” she asks flippantly, doing her best to turn her slightly breathless question into something that almost sounds teasing. It absolutely does not work.

Killian shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”  
  
“I told Mary Margaret I would so she and David could go see Ruth and, well, we’ve got all this leftover Christmas stock and I’m around and…”  
  
“And here you are.”  
  
“Here I am.”  
  
The air she’d been so desperate for just a few seconds before suddenly feels impossibly heavy – like it’s charged up or there are more protons or an electric current moving through it and none of those seem very plausible, but neither Emma nor Killian have moved their hands yet and he came into the store.

That feels like a sign.

Mary Margaret would claim it was a sign.

It’s probably a better sign than the ones they’re trying to sell.

“You can’t get Aidan one of these shirts,” Emma says, wincing slightly when the words fall out of her and Killian barely tilts his head. He blinks. “I just...we have other stuff and these shirts are so lame. He knows where he lives.”  
  
“So what would you suggest, Swan?”

It feels like a much bigger question than it probably is and Emma’s definitely getting too far ahead of herself, but his tongue moves again and his eyes are distractingly blue and that leather jacket is just so goddamn _stupid_ that she can’t be held accountable for her actions.

Temporary insanity or something.

She ducks her head and tugs on leather and he’s as good at kissing as she imagine he would be.

It takes a moment for him to catch up – and Emma nearly pulls away when she realizes Killian is frozen in front of her, half sitting on a table of messed up shirts and she really needs to remember what’s going on because she honestly can’t recall moving in between his legs until he surges up against her, both hands landing on the small of her back and tugging her closer and it’s good.

It’s really good.

It is...frustratingly good.

Killian’s tongue moves over her lower lip and she’s dimly aware of making noise, some kind of almost sigh that works a quiet laugh out of him and that’s just cheating because it makes his whole body shake against hers and Emma’s fairly positive she can feel every single inch of him.

Her hands move underneath the edge of his jacket, tugging on the cotton of his t-shirt and maybe she’s the one laughing because it’s honestly all so absurd it’s entirely possible that this entire afternoon has just been some kind of weird fever dream.

Maybe she’s suffering from symptoms of food poisoning sustained after agreeing to taste test Granny’s tuna casserole two days after Christmas.

Maybe.

Probably not.

Hopefully not.

Emma wouldn’t want this to be a dream because he is absurdly good at kissing her.

He tilts his head again and one of his hands moves into her hair, thumb brushing across the curve of her cheek in a move that makes her heart slam against her ribcage and she scratches her nails across his spine in retaliation.

One of them makes a noise, but they’re both far too preoccupied trying to map each other with their mouths to acknowledge it and it isn’t until Killian mumbles _Swan_ against her that her brain seems to catch up with the rest of her.

She jumps back – actually jumps – and there are shirts on the floor and she nearly crashes into the keychains and she can’t bring herself to actually look at him, far too aware that the way his hair is sticking up is entirely her fault.

Killian eyes her warily, the muscles in his throat moving when he swallows and she can see his jaw jump when he crosses his arms. “Emma, I….” he starts, but she shakes her head and he’s probably going to sprain his jaw.

“You can’t get Aidan a shirt,” she says. “There’s, well, there are some old summer things in the back...beach toys and stuff that you could probably spin to make it seem like they’re good for the snow we’re supposed to get tomorrow.”  
  
“We’re supposed to get snow tomorrow?”  
  
“That’s what you’re focusing on?”  
  
He shakes his head slowly, lips pressed in a thin line like he’s nervous any sort of movement will set her off and he’s not entirely wrong. Her lungs are on fire, she’s positive. “Alright,” Emma continues, nodding back towards the keychain display she nearly took out. “There’s uh...I’m pretty positive we made sure there were Aidans there specifically for him, so you can grab that too and…”

She scans the rest of the store and she can’t remember anything they sell. “There are stuffed seagulls over there,” Killian ventures, pointing a finger just over her shoulder. “Seems fairly on theme, don’t you think?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Emma sputters, jerking to look at the seagull in question and Aidan Jones would love that. Probably. She hopes. God, this is a disaster. “So, uh...I’ll go get wanna be snow buckets and shovels and you get that and we’ll find a bag and you’ll be super uncle.”  
  
“Super uncle.”  
  
“Definitely. Liam won’t even care that you need a place to crash for a week.”  
  
Killian nods, lips moving like he wants to smile, but can’t quite bring himself to when he’s still got some kind of death grip on the table and Emma moves – nearly sprinting into the back room and hoping there are still plastic buckets sitting on the shelf.

There are.

She knew there would be.

That may be the only thing she’s still certain of.

Emma takes six far-too-large breaths, trying to get her lungs back to normal while willing her heart to beat like a normal human’s once more and she stays in the back far longer than she should. It would have been very easy for Killian to rob her.

He doesn’t. Of course. She knew he wouldn’t – but she’s still pleasantly surprised to find him folding t-shirts when she walks back into the front of the store.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Emma mutters, laughing when he flinches. She leans over the counter and he was right about corners. It looks better than it did before.

Killian shrugs, but his eyes duck towards his shoes. “I told you I would, Swan.”  
  
She wonders when the conversation changed – when these easy sentences and simple banter started to shift into something _bigger_ and more _important_ and neither one of those things should happen because he’s moving to Portland and, admittedly, a bit of a workaholic and Emma’s the one who flinches when he takes a step back towards the counter, dropping a stuffed seagull in front of her.

“Thanks,” she murmurs. She doesn’t flinch when Killian moves again – because she’s staring at the goddamn seagull and his hand moves into her line of vision and he’s still warm when his fingers brush over hers.

“You’re the one who’s helping me, love,” he says. “I appreciate it.”  
  
They probably stand there for several different eternities and at least several other major holidays, but Emma can’t seem to move and Killian’s thumb is tracing out patterns on her palm and there’s a stuffed seagull in between them.

So, naturally, she ruins it.

“No problem,” Emma stammers, shaking her hair off her shoulders and standing up straight and she’s putting the seagull in the bucket before she realizes that even makes sense. “I, uh...Liam will totally understand and if he doesn’t just, uh, well David’s good at getting Liam to see reason and I can talk to David and…”  
  
“Swan,” Killian interrupts and his fingers wrap all the way around hers. “Do you...would you like to get coffee sometime?”  
  
She wants to say yes.

She wants to _shout_ yes.

She wants to kiss him again and tell him to make sure he lets her know whether or not Aidan likes the stuffed seagull and then maybe suggest they all use the bucket to build some kind of snowman if it does actually snow tomorrow, but the words seem to get caught in her throat and Emma is _Emma_ and she worries and overanalyzes and doesn’t quite believe. Killian closes his eyes when he realizes her distinct lack of an answer is, in fact, an answer.

“Ok,” he says, but he squeezes her hand once before before pushing a wad of cash towards the register and flashing her a smile and she barely hears _I’ll see you soon, Swan_ before Emma can consider what that means or register the door closing.

She tries not to think about it.

It doesn’t work.

Emma barely pays attention to the next week – pointedly ignoring Ruby’s questions about _that new guy_ and her mumbled certainty that she _can’t imagine there being anything little about the younger Jones_ and Mary Margaret blushes every single time.

She ignores both of her friends and David’s constant stream of worries because _you look distracted, Em_ and she’s only kind of sleeping, fairly certain both David and Mary Margaret are keeping track of the amount of hot chocolate she’s consumed in the last six days.

It’s a lot.

It doesn’t really help.

She was an idiot.

And she doesn’t really think about it on the seventh day, when she knows Killian should be on his way to Portland – just buys an extra large hot chocolate from Granny’s and tries to keep her footing in the snow on her way to the store.

Mary Margaret is already there, bright eyed and, presumably, bushy-tailed behind the counter and Emma’s breath catches when she sees a shock of dark hair and leather jacket standing a few feet in front of her.

“Hey,” Mary Margaret says brightly, eyeing her meaningfully when Emma slams the door shut behind her. Killian stiffens slightly, but he doesn’t turn around and any attempt at regulating her heartbeat seems to land in the ocean or something. “So, uh,” Mary Margaret continues. “I’m going to go get some food. Or something. I’ll be gone. For awhile. Not here.”  
  
“Yeah, we got it, Mary Margaret,” Emma mutters, taking a step into the store even when her legs seem determined to turn into jello.

Mary Margaret flashes her another smile, squeezing her shoulder when she breezes out of the store leaving Emma and Killian alone again – with the t-shirts. He’s holding a t-shirt.

He turns around slowly, like he’s waiting for her to run away again or turn down questions or dates and there’s a stubble on his chin that wasn’t there last week.

Emma leans back against the door.

“Aren’t you supposed to be forty-five minutes away?” Emma asks, but her voice is scratchy and hopeful and she can’t think when Killian smiles at her.

Or takes a step towards her.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “ I am, but, uh...you were right. Aidan liked the seagull and Liam wasn’t thrilled about the lack of a job, but was also somewhere in the realm of overjoyed when it came to realizing I’d be close enough to offer babysitting services and it’s, well, it’s been a good week except for one thing.”  
  
Emma bites her lip. “What’s the one thing?”

There’s not a ton of space between them and he’s still holding a shirt, but his hand lands on her hip somehow and her breathing might be ragged, but Emma’s still got a fairly good grip on most of her faculties and the lapels of Killian’s jacket.

He smiles at her.

She doesn’t move.    
  
“I can’t seem to get you out of my head,” Killian says, ducking his head into her eyeline and there goes breathing like a normal person. “It was driving Liam crazy, the questions and the curiosity and trying not to overstep or just show up here and destroy t-shirt displays until you agreed to talk to me again.”  
  
“Seems kind of drastic,” Emma mumbles and he laughs. The butterflies are back.

“Yeah, it does.”  
  
“So you’re here to…”  
  
“I really don’t know,” he admits and the flirting turns to disappointment with a suddenness that’s almost jarring. Whiplash. The word is whiplash. “Curiousity, I guess, about you and forty-five minutes and we never did circle back around to why you knew so many legal terms.”  
  
It’s probably the last thing she expects to hear, but she’s been thinking just as much and Emma wouldn’t answer Ruby’s questions, but she’s had her own and she definitely listened whenever David mentioned something about _Liam’s younger brother_.

She groans when she realizes.

“Oh, come on,” she sighs, letting her head fall forward and Killian doesn’t move when she crashes against his chest. His arm moves around her waist. “Were you trying to get information out of Mary Margaret? Is that really what was happening?”

“That was just a byproduct of waiting for you. I’m afraid you were wrong before, love, Mary Margaret wasn’t willing to give up any information without your explicit permission.”  
  
“Maybe you’re just a shit interrogator.”  
  
“That doesn’t bode well for my future forty-five minutes away.”  
  
He’s stupid charming. And good looking. And staring at her like he really did spend the last six days thinking about her and wondering about her and the words are bubbling out of her as quickly as if some geyser has been set off in her stomach.

It’s almost as disgusting a thought as that butterfly thing before.

She tells him.

She tells him about coming to Storybrooke and foster homes and staying at Granny’s for a few months – enough for Mary Margaret to decide they were going to be friends and Ruby to claim her as _one of ours_ and even after she left, Emma still had them and this town and this place.

She tells him about mistakes and feelings she thought might have been love, but were just exaggerated cons and she brushes over jail as quickly as she can, but Killian moves his thumb across her jaw and presses a kiss to her forehead and it’s some kind of miracle she doesn’t just melt right there.

She tells him about criminals and alcohol-stained dresses and how exhausted she was by all of it, but it’s quieter now and she’s really proud of the store and what she’s built with Mary Margaret, even if she still can’t quite believe she has _anything_ that’s hers.

He listens.

He waits.

He doesn’t interrupt.

And Emma’s almost out of breath when she finishes, but there’s still a bit more and she’s spent so much time over the last six days considering all the ways this was absolutely _insane_ that she’s almost ignored all the ways it also kind of worked and he was really good at kissing.

They were really good at kissing each other.

They still are – six and a half days later.

Killian doesn’t freeze that time, almost as if he’s waiting for her to move and hoping she will and Emma can feel his smile when she pushes up on her toes.  
  
He’s still holding a shirt.

“I, uh…” Emma mumbles, resting her forehead against his and the smile, somehow, grows more pronounced. “You want to get some coffee or something? I’m pretty positive my hot chocolate is cold by now and there are other stores open on Main Street today.”  
  
She has every intention of telling him how stupid that smirk is and how much it’s absolutely not working, but neither one of those things are really true and several different organs are doing something medically impossible when Killian nods in response.

“Were you just waiting to ask me out, Swan?” he asks knowingly and she resists the urge to growl at him. “What happened to the customer’s always right?”  
  
“I’m not sure you’re using that in the right context, but I’m also fairly positive it’s not true. There are, sometimes, customers who…”  
  
“Destroy t-shirt displays?”

Her smile doesn’t take her by surprise. It feels, absolutely, natural. “Yeah,” Emma agrees. “Absolutely destroy t-shirt displays.”

Their walk down Main Street – with Killian’s arm around her shoulder and that same smile plastered on her face  – is the talk of the entire town for the next week and Emma resolutely refuses to answer any questions when she tells Mary Margaret she’s _leaving early on Friday_ because she’s _got places to be_ and it only takes half an hour to get to Portland if she drives slightly faster than the speed limit.

She absolutely does.

It’s a good way to start the year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy January! So as part of "January Joy" on Tumblr, I took the prompt "I work at a department store and if you take out and unfold a shirt and then leave it one more time I’m going to stuff it down your throat." Because I am me, this is not exactly that, but it's pretty close and gave me an excuse to write kissing again. 
> 
> Thank you so much to @lenfaz and @katie-dub for organizing the event! Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	11. With a Little Bit of Luck

“Are you going to be a dick about this?”  
  
Emma drops the not-so-small pile of papers on the table in front of her, grinning when Killian nearly chokes on whatever fancy coffee she’s sure he ordered. He arches an eyebrow and that’s as much of an answer as she’s going to get.

He’s totally going to be a dick about this.

“What exactly are you suggesting, Swan?” he asks, kicking at the leg of the chair opposite him, a silent invitation to sit down that she doesn’t take.

She crosses her arms.

Tightly.

“Ok, you’re already doing it,” she huffs and a smirk joins the ridiculous eyebrow thing that’s totally his thing and absolutely, positively does not drive her _completely_ insane. “Why are you being a dick about this? Mary Margaret and David, literally, saved your soul.”   
  
“That’s just patently incorrect. That assumes the fact that I, one, have a soul, two, it needed saving at any point and, three, that you’d be aware of either one of those things.”   
  
“Are you trying to tell me you’re soulless, Jones?”   
  
“I’m just assuming your thought process, love.”   
  
Emma scowls at the endearment and, maybe, the easy way it just seems to roll off his tongue which isn’t fair at all because that just gets her thinking about his tongue and they absolutely do not have time for that.

They’ve got a wedding to plan.

Someone else’s wedding.

And maybe Mary Margaret and David saved her soul too.

“Well,” Emma says, dropping into the chair and she’s not sure if she imagines the way Killian’s lips quirk over his coffee. He pushes another cup towards her, widening his eyes and twisting his eyebrows when she actually gasps.

God, she hates him.

“There’s a questionable amount of whipped cream in there,” Killian grins, tapping on the plastic cover when Emma opens her mouth to ask her follow-up. “And cinnamon. Don’t question my intelligence like that, Swan.”

“I didn’t even say words.”  
  
“Ah, but you were thinking them.”   
  
“That’s another assumption,” Emma points out and he’s not lying. There’s a ridiculous amount of whipped cream and she’s certain she can taste the cinnamon even before she takes her first sip. “You know what happens when you assume things?”   
  
His answering expression should be illegal in, at least, three quarters of the modern world and Emma resists the urge to kick him under the table.

She’s known him for years now and they’re not exactly friends, but they’re not really enemies. He’s part of her life and she’s part of his and everything feels inextricably intertwined because he works with David and Emma grew up with David and she doesn’t want to hate David’s best friend and business partner.

She doesn’t hate Killian Jones.

She just doesn’t particularly _like_ Killian Jones.

She kind of wants to kiss Killian Jones.

Sometimes.

And sometimes she wants to kick him under tables in a previously agreed-upon meeting at the coffee shop she and Mary Margaret own because, somehow, they’ve both agreed to help plan an elopement.

It’s a very fine line to walk.

“I am not going to be a dick about this,” Killian promises, resting both his elbows on the table as his eyes flit towards the not-so-small mountain of paperwork he’s just nearly knocked over. “Tell me something though, Swan, did you scandalize the high-school employee when you took over the Staples printer?”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “Shut up.”   
  
“That's not an answer, love. And I got you coffee, shouldn’t we lay down arms for twenty minutes?”   
  
“You think we’re only going to be here for twenty minutes?”   
  
“You think it’s going to be more?”

Emma’s not sure what sound comes out of her mouth, something between a groan and a growl and an incredibly elongated sigh, but Killian keeps smiling and they really do have a lot of work to do.

And she couldn't use the printer in the back room a few feet away or every single person in that entire building would have known and no one else is supposed to know.

Except Ruby who, it seems, is some sort of very impressive psychic.

And, well, Elsa because Henry needs to stay with someone this weekend and Emma isn't really all that great at coming up with lies on the fly.

And Henry knows.

Obviously.

It's fine.

As long as Killian isn't a dick.

“How many people did you tell?” Killian asks and Emma only realizes she hasn’t blinked when her eyes start to water. Her breath hitches and she shakes her head, trying to brush off thoughts and, possibly, a bit of guilt and Killian’s going to sprain the muscles in his face if he smiles at her any wider.

“None,” Emma snaps, but she’s really the worst liar in the world and Killian’s known her for years. And he’s always been very good at getting the truth out of her.

Maybe that’s why she hates him.

She doesn’t really hate him.

“Swan,” he says and it feels like an argument and an agreement all in one. “C’mon, how many people? Because I think I’m somewhere around half a dozen.”  
  
“Half a dozen! God, you are the worst best man in the entire history of best men.”   
  
“That’s rude, love. Coffee. I bought you coffee.”   
  
“You do not get to use that as an excuse all weekend,” Emma hisses, voice going low in an attempt at secrecy and the high-school kid working behind the counter glances at them warily. “And you’re not supposed to tell anyone. Who else do you know that you could even tell?”

She sees the flicker of _something_ flash across his face before he can school his features completely and the guilt she felt over the secret elopement that isn’t so much a secret anymore, evolves into something entirely different and not-quite unexpected.

It all started when she David decided the world needed more green. His exact words were _The world is going to shit, Em, the atmosphere’s depleting and there’s carbon monoxide everywhere and don’t you think we can use some trees? The world needs trees._

She’d never really understood it, but he’d been so certain and so earnest and she couldn’t bring herself to argue – particularly when he decided he needed a partner and Killian Jones, with some kind of tragic backstory and a history in the Navy and an inexplicable degree from goddamn Cornell in human-environmental relations, showed up on their metaphorical doorstep with an eerily similar look in his eyes.

So they’d opened a goddamn tree nursery in the suburbs of Boston and Emma made jokes about growing Christmas trees every year and neither Killian nor David ever found it funny.

Ruby cackled. Every single time.

And, somehow, it all worked. People bought trees and wanted a company called Green Thumb Nursery to design their landscaping and patios and no one asked about Killian’s tragic backstory or what happened to his left hand.

It worked.

It shouldn’t have, but it did and Emma couldn’t question it because her own success story with Mary Margaret and Ruby and the little coffee shop that could – another nickname that made Ruby throw her whole head back with laughter – stayed in the black and they all sort of settled into something.

They’re a unit in the kind of way Emma had never allowed herself to imagine, growing up in group homes that always seemed impossibly cold in the winter and even warmer in the summer, and they all adored her kid and she didn’t really hate Killian.

Ever.

“Are you being paid by the insult?” Killian asks, a fairly pitiful attempt at light and easy. Emma scrunches her nose. “Or just trying to break your personal best?”  
  
“Aw, c’mon,” she sighs. “You’re going to make me feel bad. Did you really pay for coffee?”   
  
“I did. And you’re gouging your prices, love. And deflecting. Who did you tell?“

Emma deflates slightly and Killian knows he’s won. “Well, Ruby, obviously,” she says. “And Henry’s staying with Elsa and Ruby’s kind of frustrated by that, but Elsa won’t give him candy all weekend so…”  
  
She trails off, shrugging and Killian shifts in his seat. And for half a second she’s absolutely positive he’s going to try and hold her hand.

She has no idea why, but it’s there, the thought rushing through her brain until it’s the only thing she can consider and Emma feels as if her heart is expanding and contracting at the same time. He doesn’t hold her hand.

Because they’re not really friends.

They circle around each other and tease each other and, sure, Henry idolizes him because Killian has a habit of letting Henry leap into the giant pile of mulch in the back corner of the nursery and every time Henry visits the nursery he comes home caked in mud without any idea how it happened.

Emma has her suspicions.

She usually ignores them.

She’s got other things to think about. Her best friend’s wedding. In secret. Maybe.

“That’s a responsible decision, Swan,” Killian promises, rolling his shoulders when he pulls his hand back to his side of the table. “Lucas would destroy his blood sugar in twenty-four hours. At least with Elsa he’ll get some form of vegetable.”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s a very appealing idea for a twelve-year-old kid.”   
  
“Ah, I don’t know. If you tell him, he’ll understand.”   
  
Emma’s not sure what to do with that – possibly melt. “Stop that,” she mumbles instead and that’s more par for the course.

It, suddenly, feels a bit unnatural.

“So, who did you tell then,” Emma continues, determined to stay on track and in this realm of _whatever_ she and Killian have built over the last few years.

_The best friends_.

That’s what they are. They’re the best friends of the main characters. They’re there to watch true love play out in front of them, a romance for the ages because Mary Margaret and David saw each other when they were in college and the world shifted on its axis slightly and a choir angels probably sang somewhere and Emma was certain a rainbow appeared.

It was Emma’s fault.

Or something less negative because it’s not negative, it’s true love and she had a freshman business class with Mary Margaret and introduced her to David and now, like, love conquers all or whatever.

And she and Killian are...whatever.

She’s the single most eloquent person on the planet. It’s because she hasn’t finished her coffee.

“Locksley had to know,” Killian reasons. “He was supposed to deliver a shit ton of stone this weekend and now he can’t do that and--”  
  
“--And you didn’t have to say that David was getting married."  
  
“He figured it out.”   
  
Emma blinks. “What?”   
  
“See, assumptions, Swan,” he smiles and it seems to warm her from the inside out, slinking down her spine and settling at the small of her back and they’re not just walking that fine line anymore, they’re barely treading water in an incredibly deep pool that inexplicably has waves.

“He guessed that David and Mary Margaret were getting married?”

“He did, in fact. So did that one couple we were supposed to be building that wall for on Friday. David forgot that we’d set that up months ago and guess who was nominated to tell them we’d have to reschedule?”  
  
“That sounds like a very real challenge,” Emma mutters. Her whole body is on fire, she’s positive. “That’s only three, though. How’d you get to your half dozen?”   
  
“Our mulch guy, the UPS guy who was very confused when he delivered, what appeared to be, a tux to the office three days ago and Henry.”   
  
“Why do you have so many delivery guys...wait, did you say Henry? My Henry?”   
  
“I don’t know any other Henry’s, Swan.”   
  
“When was he with you?”

Killian considers it for a moment, tongue doing something entirely unfair when he presses it to the corner of his mouth. “Earlier this week? I think he came after school. Did you...did you not know that? Because he said you knew that.”  
  
He stumbles over the words, rushing from one syllable to the other and Emma’s almost certain it’s more problematic than his goddamn, fucking tongue. It’s endearing in a way that _the best friends_ are not supposed to be because this is not their story and they’re not really friends and she’s got a kid.

She hasn’t thought about...whatever it is that maybe, possibly is happening in the corner of her own coffee shop in forever.

Not since before Henry and that got her Henry and that’s fine. Great, even. She adores her kid and wouldn’t change a thing, but her kid hanging out with Killian does something ridiculous to several of her organs.

Emma realizes Killian’s still waiting for an answer, gaze just on the wrong side of her nervous and they’re both going to do damage to their necks if they keep shaking their heads so quickly.

“Yeah,” she says, practically shouting the word and nearly dislocating her jaw in an attempt to get the word out. “It’s fine. Totally fine. Absolutely fine.”  
  
“So, uh, it’s fine then?”

She definitely growls that time. “Don’t be a dick.”

“You make all of this so easy though, love,” Killian says and the smile seems to stretch across his face in slow motion, leaning across the table and the entire universe stops moving when he brushes his thumb over the back of Emma’s wrist.

There are goosebumps on her skin.

“Does this mean you got David’s suit?”

Killian blinks at the obvious deflection and Emma’s teeth sink into her lower lip, disappointment mixing in with whatever rush of heat she can still feel in the pit of her stomach. “Yeah,” he nods. “And the marriage license came on Wednesday.”  
  
“You’re a picture of efficiency.”

He pulls his own folder out of a bag she hadn’t noticed at his feet, dropping it on the pile and good, that’s good. She can cross that off the metaphorical and literal list she’s making and Emma, not for the first time, wonders why she agreed to any of this.

Something about true love.

And it’s ability to conquer all.

Including overbearing parents.   
  
“I sit and wait for people to drop things off on my desk, Swan. I really don’t think it’s that much work. The hardest thing I’ve done is trying to remind David that he can’t see the dress before the ceremony.”

Emma laughs in spite of the several thousand emotions she can feel moving through all of her veins and possibly several different arteries.

He’s stupid charming.

And he totally knows it.

That’s part of the problem.

“I’ll remind him,” Emma promises. “And the dress is gorgeous, so it’ll be worth the wait.”  
  
“Is that a note of sentimentality I hear?” Killian asks, chuckling lightly when Emma sticks her tongue out at him. He’s never actually moved his thumb. It’s brushing back and forth over her skin. She’s not sure he realizes. She doesn’t say anything. “Maybe a little bit less maturity though. And the marriage officiant got back to you about the timing?”

“I literally got off the phone with him before I got here, which is how you managed to get here before I did. He promises everything is set and we show up on Saturday at noon and everything will go off without a hitch.”  
  
“Your words or his?”   
  
“His, obviously. He sounded very excited for us to be there, although that was probably all for show. I can’t imagine he’s really hurting for clients on Valentine’s Day.”   
  
Killian nods knowingly, lower lip jutted out slightly and neither one of them has finished their coffee. “Naturally. So we leave on Friday...when?”

“Ask and ye shall receive,” Emma intones, tugging out a small pile of papers that are barely holding onto their staple. Killian presses his lips together. “It’s color coded,” she adds. “So none of us have any excuse at all for fucking any of this up.”

“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, Swan.”  
  
“Shut up.”

He flashes her another grin, twisting his eyebrows and that one piece of hair falling across his face might be her actual undoing. “This is incredible,” Killian mutters, a note of wonder in the words that makes Emma’s breath catch.

“What?”  
  
“Swan, this is incredible. This is...you’ve planned for everything. Including traffic.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t leave on Friday until Henry gets home from school,” Emma reasons. “And with a little bit of luck, we won't hit all of the traffic on the way to Logan, so I really don’t want to miss our flight. That’s not a good start for a marriage. Right?”  
  
“I have no idea,” he admits, shrugging slightly and his eyes don’t leave the schedule. “I’d assume so, but you know what happens when you assume.”

She smacks at his shoulder and his eyes get _bluer_ or sharper or some other word that shouldn’t be used when talking about the eyes of a grown man who, apparently, spends a lot more time with her kid than she originally realized.

He doesn’t flinch.

Emma does – when the door flies open and she can barely make out a flash of red highlights and the straps of her kid’s backpack before said backpack is on the ground and Henry’s already talking a mile a minute at both her and Killian.

“Kid, slow down,” Emma says, reaching up to tug lightly on Henry’s shirt. He does not slow down. If anything, he picks up the pace and she can barely make out the words, but she swears she hears something about Niagara Falls.   
  
Her stomach lurches.

“Wait, what?” she asks sharply an Henry’s eyes dart towards her.

“Mary Margaret brought cupcakes to school today because it’s almost Valentine’s Day and we had to bring in things and Ms. Livre asked her about this weekend and she told her about you guys going to Niagara Falls and Mrs. Livre kept laughing and--”  
  
He runs out of air before he can finish and Emma’s not sure who laughs louder – Killian or Ruby. She tries not to sigh.

“Hold on, you needed stuff for school?” Emma asks and Henry winces, squeezing one eye closed and digging the toe of his sneaker into the floor. Ruby laughs louder. “Why didn’t I know about that?”  
  
“Because you were doing the wedding thing,” Henry says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world. “You and Killian are super stressed out about it.”   
  
Killian stops laughing. “What makes you say that?”

“And why do you even know what stressed is?” Ruby adds, grabbing her own chair and slumping into it. “You’re twelve.”  
  
“He can still be stressed, Lucas. That’s not just something adults have a patent on.”   
  
“And also not an answer,” Emma says, not taking her eyes off her kid. He flushes under her gaze. “C’mon, you told Mary Margaret about baked goods? And did she tell your teacher she was getting married this weekend? God, everyone is going to know.”   
  
“Everyone already knows,” Ruby mumbles.

Emma ignores her. “Henry?”  
  
“She totally told,” he admits softly. “I think she’s excited. And I just told you. You’re super worried about this weekend. You didn’t have to bake too.”

Henry, finally, looks up at her and it’s eerily similar to the earnest expression Killian used a few moments before – a mix of hope and belief and understanding that seems to melt any semblance of ice in her heart.

She sighs softly, pursing her lips and clapping her hands on both of his shoulders. “This weekend is going to be fine.”

“You’re going to want to rehearse that one a few more times,” Ruby scoffs, reaching into Henry’s backpack to pull out a plastic bag full of undoubtedly delicious baked goods. “And the kid is right. Mary Margaret might be beating both of you guys when it comes to telling everyone. I think she’s shouting it to strangers on the street. It’ll probably lead the five o’clock news.”

“Oh my God,” Emma groans, pinching the bridge of her nose and she really needs more coffee. And for Killian to stop staring at her. “Why did we agree to do this?”

Killian shrugs, but there’s another flash of _something_ on his face and, possibly, a rainbow appearing somewhere. “We’re good people?”   
  
“Yeah, maybe.”

“Ah, once more with conviction, Swan.”  
  
“We’re good people,” she echoes and he hums in agreement. “Plus, you know, Mary Margaret’s step-mom is insane. She wanted her to get married at a castle with, like, eighty-two thousand people And David’s mom wanted to have a wedding in a barn. So that might be it too.”   
  
“Ah, yeah, that might be it too. Although I think agreeing to make sure both of our friends get to avoid each of those particular obstacles seems to circle us back around to being good people.”

Emma nods and smiles and it all feels a bit like flirting.

That’s not on her color coded schedule.

“Yeah, maybe,” she admits. “You want to go over the plan for Saturday so we don’t totally mess up the trip from the hotel to the chapel?”  
  
Ruby makes some kind of impossible noise and Emma glances questioningly at her. “Nothing, nothing, nothing,” she says, waving her hands through the air and wrapping an arm around Henry. “Just, you know, you guys are idiots. It’s fine. C’mon kid, I want some hot chocolate.”

They don’t miss their flight, but it’s close. Far too close. Frustratingly close.  

David and Mary Margaret don’t notice, far too hopped up on love or sentiment and it’s almost enough to make Emma forget how frustrated she is.

Almost.

Because she doesn’t really like flying.

She really, really hates flying.

“What’s wrong, Swan?” Killian asks and they’ve, apparently, reached cruising altitude, but the seatbelt sign is still on and she needs far more alcohol than she’s been offered. Emma doesn’t answer, just keeps her eyes ahead and her jaw is starting to ache from clenching it so tightly. “Swan,” he repeats, tapping lightly on the top of her hand. “You’re going to do permanent damage to the armrest, love.”  
  
“The armrest can fucking deal,” she hisses and she’s going to kill him somewhere over upstate New York if he laughs at her again.

“I’m not sure the armrest deserves your wrath. C’mon, let go.”

She doesn’t. And Killian sighs softly, shifting in his seat and ignoring her mumbled words about _affecting the air pressure_ and Emma’s lungs both feel like they collapse when he pries her fingers away from the plastic.

Her knuckles are stiff when they’re not gripping the armrest as if its her only tie to the Earth, but Killian just laces his fingers through hers and squeezes lightly and, well, yeah, ok.

“Why are you freaking out, Swan?” he asks lightly, like it’s not an absolutely enormous question and Emma chances a glance his direction. Killian doesn’t blink, just keeps staring straight at her and waiting and it’s kind of always been like that.

He waits and she offers information and he counters and they dance around each other, but they’re somewhere in that depleting atmosphere David’s always talking about and there’s nowhere to move.

The seatbelt sign is still on.

So she tells him – about group homes and closings and being shipped around the country like a piece of forgotten luggage that no one was entirely willing to claim. And there was always a social worker with her, sitting in the seat next to her, but they never moved when the turbulence, inevitably, came and Emma never really trusted airplanes.

That's some kind of lasting theme.

Killian doesn’t interrupt. He lets her talk until her voice goes hoarse and Emma pays for rum in tiny, plastic glasses before he can ask for it.

She knows he wouldn’t ask for it.

And, eventually, he talks back. He tells her about Liam and coming back on that plane and the distinct lack of anyone when they landed, a quiet return that didn’t change anything for anyone.

Except him.

“I was always more partial to water travel anyway,” Killian adds, sliding further into his seat and David’s fallen asleep. Emma can hear him snoring on the other side of the aisle. “Less drastic if you fall.”  
  
“Oh God,” she groans. “I can’t believe you just used that word out loud.”

“I can guarantee that wasn’t intentional.”  
  
“I don’t know. I think you get some kind of perverse pleasure in trying to drive me insane. It’s like you’re playing some sort of game with yourself.”   
  
She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth, the fingers still twisted up with hers loosening slightly and Emma holds on when Killian tries to pull away. “Damn,” she mutters, eyes falling to the armrest and she doesn’t remember turning towards him. Their knees almost bump. “That was super shitty wasn’t it?”   
  
Killian shakes his head deftly, hair falling far too close to his eyes to be anything except absurdly attractive. She’s not sure what time it is, but it feels like it’s inching closer to midnight in some sort of fairytale type of way, something that includes kisses and magic and the air seems to crackle around her.

That might be the alcohol.

She’s notoriously bad at holding her alcohol.

“No, it wasn’t, love,” Killian mutters, tongue darting out to lick his lips and it’s enough to send Emma’s mind racing.

_This is not their story_.

“And,” he adds, “you’re not entirely wrong, you know. I do kind of...enjoy it. But only because you get this look.”  
  
Her mind is running a marathon. “A look,” Emma repeats dumbly and Killian makes a noise that might be an agreement. Or possibly want. Her mind might have tripped up at the finish line. “What does that mean, exactly?”   
  
Killian hardly waits until she’s closed her mouth to answer.

She’ll probably think about that later.

Or, like, every day for the rest of her life.

“Your eyes get all narrow and you do this thing with your mouth,” he explains. “Like you’re trying to sneer, but it never quite reaches its mark.”  
  
“You know, this conversation is getting more and more insulting. I feel like you should buy the next round of drinks.”

“It’s not insulting, Swan. It’s an observation. You didn’t like me.”  
  
“Past tense.”

“Ah, well, that’s just my hopeful nature,” he grins and she has to dig her heels into her shoes to stop herself from doing something stupid. “I’d like to imagine you almost tolerate me now. We did, after all, plan a wedding.”

“Talk to me after the wedding,” Emma says.

It’s another deflection. They both know it. David’s asleep and he knows it. The flight attendant who refills their drink _absolutely_ knows it.

But Emma is cautious at best and paranoid at worst and this weekend is about someone else’s love story.

And that’s the first time she’s thought _that_ word with Killian Jones in the same sentence.

She can feel her eyes go wide, the soft rush of air falling out of her and her shoulders sag under some invisible weight she’s only just realized she’s holding.

Damn.

Killian lifts his eyebrows, waiting for another answer or possibly hoping for something else and she hopes they land soon.

She feels like she’s lost her center of gravity.

“The wedding is going to be fine, Swan,” he says and it sounds a bit like a guarantee. “It’s color coded. What could go wrong?”

Plenty.   
  
The answer is plenty.

And, possibly, everything.

“What do you mean the reservation has been changed?” Emma asks and it isn't the first time she’s shouted that question. “How is that even possible?”  
  
The man behind the desk shrugs, and Emma briefly considers throwing herself at him and punching him in the face. Several times. “It’s a computer glitch ma’am,” he says, smile tight and voice clipped and Emma’s going to do damage to her throat if she groans more.

“Swan,” Killian cautions. He rests a hand on her shoulder, holding her down or holding her back and she’d been jumping up and down. “It’s alright, love. It’s not as if Mary Margaret and David need a separate room tomorrow. We didn’t really need three rooms.”  
  
“That’s true,” Mary Margaret says enthusiastically. She nods several times, still smiling and Emma squeezes her eyes closed, sagging against Killian’s side.

They don’t need three rooms, but that means there will only be two rooms tomorrow and only one married couple and Emma’s head is going to explode.

She doesn’t see David’s expression.

She hears it.

And that’s, somehow, worse.

“See, crisis averted,” Killian mutters, fingers tapping lightly on her jacket and he flashes her a grin before turning back towards the frantic looking hotel worker.

Mary Margaret apologizes, no less, than twenty-six times.

“You can’t keep saying sorry the night before your wedding,” Emma says, propping her head up on her hand. “That’s bad luck or something.”  
  
“Ah, of course,” Mary Margaret laughs. She flops back onto a small stack of pillows, the smile seemingly etched on her face at this point and Emma feels a rush of jealousy that is both impossible and decidedly out of place. “Hey, you know you’ve saved everything, right?” she asks. “You and Killian. I...it’s incredible.”

“We’re not doing anything. You’re the one getting married.”

“Yeah and if it weren’t for you we’d be getting married twice, once at a castle and then again at a farm and there’d be so much pomp and circumstance, it would make several different royal families jealous. You are the only reason that’s not happening.”  
  
“Please,” Emma argues. “You wouldn't have let that happen.”   
  
Mary Margaret makes a dismissive noise. “I would have. I would have hated it, but I would have. I’m serious, Emma, the only reason any of this is happening is because of you.”   
  
It’s a subtle difference, but it’s there and Emma’s fairly positive it’s also because she knows Mary Margaret so well – the quiet hitch in her voice and the way her eyes dart down to the bedspread and low-thread count sheets. It’s the same voice she used when she first mentioned eloping and Emma took the idea and ran with it.

She’s been on the run for weeks now.

There’s a metaphor there.

She ignores it.

She runs from it.

God.

“He offered to help after he realized you were going to help,” Mary Margaret says quickly and the words don’t really sound like words, particularly when they’re mumbled into a pillow.

“Who?”  
  
“Emma!”   
  
“Mary Margaret, I’m serious,” Emma groans, flipping onto her back and she’s definitely a coward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about or alluding to because nothing is happening. This is your wedding!"  
  
“See, you saying any of those words in that very specific order sounds a bit like arguing. Something, something the lady doth protest too much.”   
  
“You’ve literally just used the exact quote.”

Mary Margaret's laugh seems to echo off the hotel-room walls and Emma dimly wonders if David and Killian are having a similar conversation a few doors down the hall. They couldn’t even get side-by-side rooms.

That might not be the worst thing in the world.

It’ll probably depend on how tomorrow goes.

“Yeah and you didn’t really question his help,” Mary Margaret continues pointedly. “You enthusiastically agreed.”  
  
“I don’t know about enthusiastic.”   
  
“And I don’t know any other Shakespearean quotes that are relevant to the current situation.”

“Really putting that business degree to good use.”

“Could you come up with another one?”

“No,” Emma answers immediately. “My Shakespeare knowledge begins and ends with Leonardo DiCaprio in Romeo and Juliet.”  
  
“I kind of always had a crush on Mercutio,” Mary Margaret mutters and it’s getting late. Emma’s going to rage if they sleep through the alarm. Or the wakeup call. She’s made sure they have both.

“Isn’t he the best friend? And dies some vaguely horrible death?”  
  
“I mean, they all die.”   
  
“This is the worst night-before-your wedding conversation in the history of the entire human race.”

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret agrees. “It might be. But Mercutio, right? A little snarky, cursing people as he dies. That’s something to consider.”  
  
Emma grabs one of the extra pillows on her bed, hardly considering why hotels have _so many pillows_ before she stuffs her face into it. And yells. Loudly. “It’s getting heavy-handed now,” she mumbles and, really, she’s not going to say anything. It’s not her story. It’s not her weekend.

_It’s not her wedding_.

But the words don’t seem to care and he’d never let go of her hand until they landed. Or after they landed.

“How did you know you could...trust David?” Emma asks, lifting the pillow off her mouth so the words don’t get muffled.

Mary Margaret's answering smile rivals the sun. It is the middle of the night.

They don’t fall asleep until somewhere in the realm of three in the morning and Emma sleeps through the alarm and the wakeup call, eyes only snapping open when she hears a knock on the door and nearly trips over the questionable amount of bedding that’s found its way onto the floor at some point.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she mumbles, blinking blearily and swinging the door open to find a fully-dressed and very attractive Killian Jones leaning on the opposite wall is not exactly helping her current mental state.

God, he’s wearing a suit.

She knew he was going to wear a suit and she’s still not prepared.

“Morning, Swan,” Killian grins and he’s far too confident when he pushes off the wall, stepping into her space. Emma can’t breathe. He blinks, like he’s only just realizing she’s not prepared for a wedding and surprise is even a better look than confidence. “Why aren’t you ready?”

“What time is it?’ she asks. “Why...why are you wearing that?”  
  
“The suit I was told to wear because it matches David’s? I’m fairly certain it’s because it matches David’s. We did this two weeks ago, love.”

“No, no, that’s not…” Emma groans, running a hand over her face and she didn’t realize he as holding coffee. Fucking hell, he’s holding coffee.

_He brought her coffee._

“Deep breaths, Swan,” he says. There’s that flash of teasing in his gaze again and she’s sure this whole exchange is worth, at least, seventeen points in whatever, weird system he’s got, but his fingers are soft when they brush over her forearm and he got her coffee.

“Time?”  
  
“Nearly nine o’clock.”   
  
This is an unqualified disaster. She hopes she doesn’t spill her coffee. She hasn’t taken the coffee from him yet.

“Are you serious?” Emma screeches and Killian widens his eyes meaningfully.

“I wouldn’t put the suit on if I didn’t have to.”

She groans, rolling her head between her shoulders and squeezing her eyes shut. She can still, somehow, feel Killian’s stare, boring into the side of her head.

There’s a nervous tinge to the air – a jarring difference from whatever happened on the plane or in the lobby or the hallway the night before when he’d promised _it’s going to be great, Swan_ and, well, maybe there was a reason for Mary Margaret’s knowing look.

“That’s a really good point,” she mumbles and she doesn’t quite lean against the doorframe so much as she stumbles into it. Emma takes a deep breath, nodding once and she’s not entirely sure who she’s trying to convince.

Or what she’s trying to convince them of.

“So, we’re slightly behind schedule,” she says.

Killian hums softly, ducking into her eyeline. “David is pacing already.”  
  
“God, why did you tell me that?”

“It’s almost romantic?”  
  
“It is frustrating,” Emma counters, stabbing a finger half-heartedly into his chest before she can think better of it.  He hasn’t put his tie on. It’s sticking out of his pocket. “I don’t even think Mary Margaret is awake yet. Shit, that’s not great. We’re going to hit so much traffic.”   
  
“You’re very worried about the traffic, love.”   
  
“That’s a valid concern.” 

“I’m not disputing that, but why don’t you get in the shower before we start worrying about the traffic, yeah? Maybe wake Mary Margaret up and let her know it’s time to get married?”

The question lacks the usual hint of sarcasm and possible innuendo and it sends Emma into some sort of metaphorical tailspin that she’s only slightly concerned will become literal if they do, actually hit traffic.

They do, of course, hit traffic.

A metric fuck ton of traffic.

She’s never been to Niagara Falls, but she heard somewhere about how the Canadian side is better and, if the traffic is any indication, Emma is quick to agree. There are cars everywhere and none of them are moving and brake lights have never been more glaring, a headache blooming behind her left eye the longer they sit exactly where they’ve been for the last twenty minutes.

They haven’t moved in twenty minutes.

“There’s got to be another way to get there,” Emma mutters, slamming her thumb on her phone like it will, suddenly, provide her with a different route than the last time she tried. Two minutes before.   
  
It doesn’t.

Killian sighs, rapping out an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel and this was supposed to be the right idea. The hotel is only half an hour away from the Falls. It’s cheaper. It’s more cost effective. It’s not in the middle of the lesser Niagara Falls.

The world has a cruel sense of humor.

“It’s quarter of,” David says softly, voice barely more than a whisper and Emma knows he’s not trying to drive her insane, but he’s been announcing the time since they found him pacing in the hotel lobby that morning.

“Yes,” Emma hisses. “We know. We are painfully aware of what time it is.”

Killian’s eyes dart to hers, nerves rolling off him and there is no color for this. “Did they answer?” he asks and Emma shakes her head quickly.

She’s called the chapel, wedding venue, _whatever_ it is, six times since they got on the highway and realized it would take forever to get off the highway and it’s gone to some inexplicable voicemail every single time.

Emma has already considered throwing her phone out the window.

“Nothing,” she whispers and Killian inhales sharply. Mary Margaret might whimper. She’s looking a little green in the back seat of the car they rented at the airport.

“Alright, we’re finding another way.”

It takes another ten minutes to get close enough to the exit that they’re not _totally_ breaking the law when they drive up the shoulder and Emma mutters directions under her breath and they take side streets she’s certain no other human or automobile has seen in several decades.

They’re still twenty minutes late.

And it gets worse.

They’ve been bumped.

“You were late,” the woman standing at an actual podium just inside an actual white chapel informs them and Killian has to hold Emma back when she jumps forward.

“Swan,” he says, hand warm on her hip and breath even warmer just behind her ear. He’s impossibly solid when she droops against his arm, glaring at the woman in front of her as if that will do anything except make the situation worse.

It does.

“So what are we supposed to do?” Emma asks.

The woman lifts her eyebrow, tapping a pen on the schedule in front of her. Emma doubts its color coded. “I’m sorry,” she says and she absolutely is not. “But there’s not anything we can do about it. You were late. And,” she adds, waving a hand behind her to the increasingly growing crowd of white and taffeta, “as you can see we’re running a very tight ship here.”  
  
Emma’s never seen an actual explosion, but in the days and months and years that follow both Killian and David will describe her reaction as such – she leaps forward again and even Killian’s arm can’t slow her down, slamming both her fists down on the podium hard enough that it shakes. She shouts and stamps her foot and screams about the _power of love_ and none of it works because they hit traffic and they were late for a wedding that was scheduled to last fifteen minutes.

Max.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret sighs and she’s absolutely caused a scene. There are tear tracks on her cheeks. “It’s ok. We can just...we can do something else. Aren’t there casinos around here?”

“Less than a mile from here,” the schedule woman says. Her jaw snaps shut when Emma glares at her again.

They go to the casino less than a mile away from the chapel and it is the single most depressing place Emma has ever been in her life and once, she lived in a group home with a hole in the roof that leaked every time it even thought about raining.

She tells Killian as much, sitting next to him at a roulette table that sets her teeth on edge and he nods, scratching lightly behind his ear.

“I’ve lost fifty bucks already,” he says, flashing a cautious smile her direction and Emma knows she gapes slightly.

“How?”  
  
“Something about luck and not having any?”   
  
“God, that’s depressing.”   
  
Killian shifts, trying to give her more room and they’re not so much sitting on two different chairs as they’re sharing two chairs together. She has no idea how that happened. “You want to pick the color, Swan?” he asks.

“The green one.”  
  
“What?”

“You heard me.”  
  
“Ok,” he nods and there’s a note of something that might actually be _impressed_ in his tone. His shoulder bumps hers when he puts the chip down.

Time seems to pass differently in the casino – bright lights and drinks on trays and the sound of slot machines is almost hypnotic after awhile. They don’t win immediately, but they keep betting, some unspoken streak of stubbornness that Emma’s starting to imagine they both share and by the time that little, bouncing ball does, finally land on the one green space, they’ve already lost far more money than they’ll ever win.

It’s still kind of fun.

Mary Margaret and David win an absurd amount of money playing blackjack – hundreds of dollars that will, almost, pay for the hotel and by the time they get back to the hotel the smiles on their faces are, almost, genuine.

“It’s ok, Emma,” Mary Margaret promises, but the disappointment is obvious and both she and David offer to keep rooming assignments the same.

“That’s insane,” Emma says immediately. “You guys are...it’s fine. We’re all fine and I’m going to figure out how to fix this once we get back home. There will be no castle, farm wedding. I won’t let it happen.”  
  
“I mean, to be fair, the castle and farm wedding will probably just be two different weddings so the respective mothers in this situation won’t actually try to strangle each other,” David shrugs and Mary Margaret’s laugh is far too watery to be comforting.

“I’m going to fix this.”  
  
“There’s not anything to fix,” Mary Margaret says, but it’s another lie and Emma is, suddenly, far more determined than she’s ever been in her life.

She nods and it’s placating and kind of what she does with Henry when he promises she doesn’t have to check that he did his homework, but it gets Mary Margaret and David in their room and Emma sprints down the hallway before she can lose her nerve.

Killian blinks when she slams the door open, already sitting on the edge of the bed. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”  
  
“I have,” Emma says. “The ghost of wedding present.”   
  
“Is that code?”   
  
“You need to put your shoes back on.”   
  
She moves around the room like some kind of whirlwind, throwing Killian’s jacket at him and if she weren’t so distracted she would have been impressed when he caught it. “Swan,” he says, catching her around the waist and they both stutter when they realize it’s his left arm.

“Emma,” Killian whispers and that’s not even fair. “You’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking, love. And please stop throwing clothing at me.”

The noise she makes isn’t quite human, but she’s running on adrenaline and the power of love and the idea is absolutely insane. “I have no idea,” she admits. “But I kind of want to go back to that chapel and...see what happens?”

Killian eyes her for a moment and she can almost hear the gears working in her head.

She tries not to breathe too loudly.

“Do you want to drive or do you want me to do it?” he asks and she exhales.

“You can drive.”  
  
“Deal.”

They get to the chapel in what Emma is sure is record time, pulling up short of the sidewalk and Killian glances expectantly at her. “What’s your plan here, love? Because I’m fairly certain we can’t kidnap this guy. I’d really rather not get arrested if it’s all the same to you.”  
  
“We’re not going to get arrested.”   
  
“Then what are we…”   
  
“Talk?” Emma ventures. “I just thought...maybe if we went in and talked to them and explained or...I don’t, honestly, but Mary Margaret was so disappointed and she can’t get married at a farm. Like. Could you imagine Mary Margaret getting married at a farm?”   
  
“I can’t imagine David getting married at a castle.”   
  
“Then we’re at some kind of romantic impasse.”   
  
Killian keeps staring at her, eyes tracing across her face for something Emma hopes he finds and her lungs burn with the distinct lack of oxygen she’s providing them. It’s because he’s so ridiculously good looking.

And he didn’t argue her absolute lack of a plan.

He leans over, squeezing his fingers over her hand and the smile is somewhere in the realm of confident when he tilts his head slightly. “Alright, Swan,” he says. “Let’s go find someone to talk to.”

There’s still a crowd when they walk inside, a different schedule-watcher standing behind the goddamn podium who practically leaps to attention at the sight of Emma and Killian. “Can I help you?” she asks. “Do you have an appointment? A witness? Oh! Do you need a witness?”

“No, no, no,” Emma stammers, ignoring whatever noise Killian makes at her quick disagreement. “We’re not here to actually...my name is Emma Swan and I...is there someone in charge, I can talk to? I’ve been talking to a guy named Lance for the last couple of days and--”

“--Ms. Swan?”

Emma jerks her head at the sound of her own name, praying to every religious figure she’s not entirely sure she believes in that the man in front of her is Lance...she can’t remember his last name. She’s the worst wedding planner in the world.

“Are you Lance?” she asks. He grins in response. “Um...I need your help.”  
  
Lance looks confused and Emma can’t really blame him, eyes darting Killian’s direction. “I was told you didn’t make it to your ceremony this afternoon.”   
  
“Ok, well, it’s not my ceremony, but, yeah, that’s...there was traffic and a distinct lack of customer service.”   
  
“Swan,” Killian mumbles, but she shakes her head and she’s fallen into defensive mode rather quickly. Mary Margaret definitely cried in that casino. “Although it really was shit customer service. You might want to reconsider that for future, loving couples.”   
  
Lance eyes them speculatively and Emma realizes this is not going to be easy. “My friends didn’t get married today,” Emma starts. “And they were supposed to get married today and, somehow, they are going to get married today. I don’t care how it happens, but it’s going to happen and we paid a ton of money for you to make sure it happened.”   
  
“What exactly would you like me to do?” Lance asks, crossing his arms lightly over his chest and rocking back on his heels.

Emma can feel herself bristle, Killian tensing next to and, if asked, she would say she absolutely did not turn into his side.

She’s a worse liar than Mary Margaret.

“I really don’t know,” Emma says, appreciating the way Lance’s eyes widen at her, rather, brutal honesty. “But I’m not leaving this city until there is a marriage license signed somewhere and--”

“--And we’ve got some extra money,” Killian finishes.

That is, easily, the last thing she expects.

“We do?”  
  
“Yup,” he nods, popping his lips on the word and grinning at her in a way that, somewhere between meeting him and sitting at her own coffee shop with her color-coded schedule she’d started considering as hers.

“How?”

“You went to go find Mary Margaret and David before we left the casino and I went...all in?”

“That was a question.”  
  
“On green.”

Emma’s not sure how her legs continue to support her body because it feels like every single one of her organs is slowly, but surely shutting down and Lance looks uncomfortable. She’s breathing out of her mouth.

“Oh," she breathes. It is the least emotional response she could come up with. “And...you won? On the green one?”

Killian nods slowly and it feels like another rainbow-type moment and there is, actually, music playing in the background which, eventually, Emma will consider a sign. As it is, she’s mostly preoccupied with saving one wedding and trying to stay conscious and neither thing is particularly easy.

“So,” he says softly and there’s barely any space between their noses. She’d really like to kiss him. “We’ve got some extra cash. If Lance maybe wants to make sure he doesn’t get some God awful Yelp reviews every day for the rest of his life.”

Lance narrows his eyes and it’s not the most cutthroat threat Emma’s ever heard, but it might be the most heartfelt and, somehow, that’s nicer.

“What exactly do you need me to do?” Lance asks again and, that time, Emma knows. It’s crazy, but she knows. And Lance agrees when he sees the cash.

They don’t make him drive back with them – threatening more internet reviews if he doesn’t show up at the hotel lobby in the next hour – and it’s quiet in the car, a companionable silence that Emma, naturally, breaks.

“Hey, um,” she mumbles, reaching forward to rest her hand on Killian’s thigh and he jumps at the touch. “Thank you.”  
  
His eyebrows shift slightly, lips quirking up and for one vaguely horrible moment Emma thinks they’re going to fall back into teasing and sarcasm and she doesn’t realize she wants to move beyond that until that very moment.

She’s never going to sleep.

“This was your idea, love,” he says, voice just as soft and he doesn’t look away from the road, but she can see his tongue dart out, tracing over his lower lip. It makes her heart beat faster. “I’m just...here to help.”  
  
“No, I know and that’s, well, that’s really nice. And you always kind of do that do you? You helped David get the nursery off the ground and you’re around for Henry and you might be our best customer. I don’t think anyone in the entire Boston area drinks more espresso than you.”   
  
“Ah, old habits. You need coffee for early-morning roll call.”

“The Navy?”  
  
“The Navy,” he confirms. “Although your espresso is far better than any sludge they have on ships.”   
  
“Was that a compliment?” Emma asks, slouching a bit on the seat and she’s a pretzel of limbs and feelings and it’s very warm in that car. “It sounded a bit like a compliment.”   
  
“It was definitely a compliment. You’ve done something good here, Swan.”   
  
“Ah, but you didn’t always think that, did you? You didn’t like me either. You thought I was controlling and schedule obsessed.”   
  
“That’s also past tense and I refute the idea that I thought you were controlling. Determined, absolutely, but hardly controlling.”   
  
“I’m not sure that’s much better.”

Killian laughs and the sound sinks into her soul or something equally ridiculous, like some kind of fire or spark and it’s easy and they’re very good at saving weddings. Or, at least, she hopes.

“It’s definitely better,” Killian promises, pulling into the designated parking spot that goes with their hotel room and neither one of them move to get out of the car.

If put under a lie detector test or forced to answer under oath, Emma would say she absolutely, positively expected Killian Jones to kiss her in that moment.

She wanted him to kiss him.

That kept happening.

“So...past tense?” Emma asks warily and she’s going to die of oxygen deprivation.

They both flinch at the knock on the window and Emma knows she doesn’t imagine Killian’s groan. Lance smiles. “Ask me after the wedding,” Killian says, resting his hand on top of hers.

Emma never really knows what happens in the next forty-six and a half minutes – it’s a mess of feelings and knocking or doors and then kicking on doors because it might not have, technically, been their wedding night yet, but Mary Margaret and David don’t seem too concerned with labels.

Her jaw drops to her feet and Killian laughs against her back, leaning over her to try and keep himself upright. Mary Margaret blushes and David throws several pillows and shouts several different variations of _get out_ and by the time he opens the door with an appropriate amount of clothing on, Emma is reconsidering her nice-person tendencies.

Until she tells them the plan and the marriage officiant standing in the lobby – conveniently leaving out the part of the story where they _bribed him_ – and Mary Margaret makes a noise that likely affects several dogs in the immediate area.

They don’t waste anymore time, getting back into dresses and suits and Emma has to knot David’s tie because his hands won’t stop shaking.

It is, easily, the strangest wedding Emma has ever been to.

There’s no aisle, there’s no music, but there are flowers and Mary Margaret cries when Killian hands her a tiny bouquet.

“How?” Emma mutters, a wonder in the question and she’d probably hit him if she weren’t so busy being charmed.

He shrugs. “What’s that saying? Something about a magician and his secrets?”  
  
“Are you suggesting you’re a magician? A flower magician?”

“No,” Killian laughs, far too close to her and far too attractive and it will be a miracle if Mary Margaret ever stops crying. “That would be weird.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s definitely the weirdest part of this night.”

They draw a small crowd, standing by the windows and the lighting is terrible, but David appears to actually be glowing with the power of love and Mary Margaret looks unfairly beautiful, even with tear tracks on her cheeks and Killian keeps taking pictures.

Emma can’t get a good enough grip on her phone.

She might be crying too.

It’s a short ceremony –  _they bribed the officiant_ – but it’s nice in its own kind of way and Lance is clearly reciting from a script he probably memorized as soon as he stepped into that wedding chapel. He talks about love and the power of love and it’s all bordering a bit on cheesy, but then he blinks and something seems to change and--

“--Love is transformative,” Lance says. “It makes people do crazy things. And there’s so many different kinds of love. There’s romantic and platonic and friendship and it all meshes together to form this crazy emotion that makes us do crazy things because, somewhere in our wiring we decided we couldn’t be without another person.

And some people may see that as weak or desperate, but it’s not. It’s the opposite of that. It’s admitting that we are, in fact, human. And other humans make us feel something and we want to keep feeling that for the rest of our lives because we’re happy. There are no guarantees in life and there are no guarantees in marriage, but with a little bit of luck and sheer force of will, it all works out in the end. It’s worth it.”

Emma blinks, trying to keep the tears in her eyes and it doesn’t work, Killian shifting half a step closer to her. She moves on instinct, fingers wrapping around the prosthetic at the end of his left arm because he’s _still_ taking pictures and her gaze darts to him when she hears him inhale.

“Past tense,” she says softly and he just barely moves his thumb in enough time to take a photo when Mary Margaret and David, officially, become husband and wife.

“Past tense,” Killian repeats.

They sign their name on the marriage license and Lance leaves as soon as the ink is dry, the four of them taking up residence at the hotel bar when Emma realizes Mary Margaret isn’t drinking.

She nearly falls off her stool.

Mary Margaret flushes, biting her lip tightly and David mutters something that sounds a bit like _surprise_ and three of them do shots in celebration.

They practically stumble into last call and Mary Margaret’s head lolls on David’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as he wraps an arm around her waist to direct her back to the room. She mumbles another _thank you_ and _it was perfect_ and it kind of was, even if Emma’s feet are starting to hurt.

She downs the rest of her drink, shivering slightly when the alcohol lands in her stomach and she can feel Killian’s eyes on her.

Waiting. As per usual.

“Mary Margaret said you offered to help after you realized I agreed,” Emma says and it sounds like an accusation. “Damn, that was way more aggressive than I wanted it to be. It was supposed to be a question. Comment? No, question.”  
  
“Emma,” Killian interrupts, leaning forward to rest a hand on her knee. “Yes. Mary Margaret’s right. And incapable of lying.”   
  
“I mean...obviously not.”   
  
“That was a lack of forthcoming truth, not a lie.”   
  
“God, that’s infuriating. Do you have to be right all the time?”   
  
“No, it just happens more often than not.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but she’s still being charmed and Killian totally knows and they’re both still playing the game. Or, possibly, flirting. That might have been what they’ve been doing this whole time. “And,” Killian continues, “Mary Margaret didn’t tell me that you were helping plan this.”  
  
“No?” she asks. “Who did?” It takes, exactly, two and a half seconds and one, rather, dramatic sigh to realize. “Henry,” Emma says and it’s not a question. “Jeez, what a sneak.”   
  
“He was rather adamant that we’d be able to plan something good.”   
  
Emma laughs, but it’s still lingering somewhere in nervous and she’s not sure what the correct punishment for an overly interfering twelve-year-old trying to play matchmaker is, but she’s also fairly sure he got a considerable amount of help from one other coffee shop owner and possibly the only responsible adult they know with far too much time on their collective hands.

So, really, she doesn’t spend too much time thinking about punishments or how early they have to get up for their flight, just leans forward and grabs hold of Killian’s suit jacket and kisses the living daylights out of him.

Or something less violent.

He reacts almost immediately and her mind flits back to _waiting_ and _hoping_ , but then his tongue does something absolutely absurd on her lower lip and Emma opens his mouth against him and the entire world could have fallen out of orbit.

She wouldn't have realized.

Killian’s hand finds the small of her back, tugging her to the edge of the stool until their knees hit and their feet bump and Emma’s right heel is threatening to fall off. She’s not sure how either one of them are breathing, but they might be sharing the same air and that’s kind of romantic.

He’s incredibly good at kissing her, tilting his head to make sure his lips fit against hers and Emma gives as good as she gets, fingers carding through his hair until Killian makes some kind of impossible noise.

The bartender probably doesn’t appreciate it.

Emma can’t quite bring herself to care. She’s certain she’s on fire or boiling or something else completely impossible and she’s not so much sitting anymore as she's trying to occupy the same few inches of space as Killian, working in between his legs and resting one hand flat on his chest.

“We need to move,” she says, the words shaking when he starts kissing the curve of her jaw and the side of her neck and they’re walking before Emma is entirely ready for it.

She takes her shoes off in the hallway and they stumble down the carpet together, pausing to kiss and tug on ties and Emma has no idea how they get into the room, only that to do when she feels her back pressed against the suddenly closed door.

They leave a trail of clothes in their wake, but have to go back to find Killian’s wallet eventually and it leaves Emma laughing in the middle of a hotel bed, hair splayed out under her and pillows everywhere and she’s so goddamn happy she’s fairly certain she’s won some kind of romantic lottery.

Killian grins at her over his shoulder, fingers brushing over her thighs and the curve of her hip as soon as he’s back in her space and she’s not really worried about sleeping.

Like, ever again.

She falls asleep on the plane.

There’s a party at the coffee shop – a plan Emma almost forgot about, but then Ruby’s shouting _surprise_ and Elsa’s got an arm around Henry and there are balloons everywhere and more flowers. Mary Margaret makes some kind of decidedly romantic noise when she notices Killian’s fingers lace through Emma’s.

She starts crying again.

Ruby laughs.

Henry beams.

And it all kind of just...happens. They never actually define it and they never really have to because they weren’t ever really _friends_ , but neither of them really wanted to be and it’s the same game, just with a bit more kissing and a lot more planning and Killian asks Henry before he asks Emma.

She says yes.

She _shouts_ yes.

Henry doesn’t appreciate the kissing.

And she doesn’t come up with a color-coded schedule for her own wedding because, suddenly, it’s Emma’s story and she’s not alone and she doesn’t need it to be perfect, she just needs to show up.

He does. With flowers in hand.

“How?” Emma asks, the dim sound of a camera shutter echoing in the distance because, apparently, _first look_ photos are a _thing_. She can barely hear it over the water and they had to get married by the water.

Killian grins, kissing her forehead and the camera probably explodes. “You know there are flower shops within walking distance of this hotel and several others we’ve been to?”

She knows she looks stunned, feels stunned, down to her toes and her already aching heels, but Emma can’t bring herself to care when she sees the slightly nervous look on his face, the same one she’d noticed in the coffee shop all those years before and it seems to settle into the space between her ribs.

As if she’d always been waiting for it.

Or just waiting to hit the right spot on the roulette wheel.

“That’s crazy,” she mutters, both hands flat on his chest and she’s more than ready when he ducks his head and kisses her.

“Just good luck,” Killian says.

It absolutely is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was loosely inspired by real life events and how absolutely depressing most casinos are and how many Meg Cabot books I've read over the course of my entire life. Love conquers all though, naturally. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	12. Almost Believing, This One's Not Pretend, Part 1

“It’s fine.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“It is fine.”  
  
“Say it one more time.”

Emma scowls, narrowing her eyes, but Elsa doesn’t back down and she didn’t really expect her to because the word fine has, at some indeterminate point, stopped really meaning anything and she kind of feels like a broken record.

That’s a very old sentence.

“It’s fine,” Emma says again and the words sound just as foreign as they did before, but she’s got to get it right and maybe if she keeps repeating herself and citing vaguely ancient metaphors it really will be fine.

She is an absolute disaster.

“That one was, actually, almost better,” Mary Margaret adds, flashing an honest smile that does little to assuage the nerves festering in the pit of Emma’s stomach.

Mary Margaret is perched on the edge of the bed, a half-filled suitcase sitting a few feet behind her and there are far too many clothes draped everywhere, a mess of Team USA jackets and hair supplies she probably doesn’t have to bring with her, but Emma likes to be prepared and it really is going to be fine.

It is definitely not going to be fine.

“Can we not do this right now?” Emma asks. She leans back, but somewhere in between repeating herself and trying to believe what she’s repeating and remembering where she put her goddamn passport, she’s managed to forget that her closet door is still open.

She nearly kills herself.

“You really should probably practice a few more times,” Elsa suggests. It is not a suggestion. “It just, you know…”  
  
Emma lifts her eyebrows, trying to stand up straight, but it’s almost as pointless as repeating herself because she’s got nothing to push off of.

There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

She ignores it.

She’s going to be late.

“You want to finish that sentence,” Emma challenges, but Elsa’s already shaking her head and they are going in circles. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”  
  
“Happy thoughts,” Mary Margaret mutters.

Emma sighs, shaking her hair off her shoulders and, finally, standing up straight and she can’t fuck up her posture because that will probably mess with her ability to skate and that’s kind of the point of all of this.

Fine.

_Fine. Fine. Fine._

It. Is. Fine.

“If you’re waiting for me to burst into song or something you’re going to be sorely disappointed,” Emma says, eyeing Mary Margaret with something almost resembling a smirk and it doesn’t work. That’s disappointing. “And,” she adds, nodding towards the tiny speaker sitting in the corner of the room. “I don’t think my voice is really going to match up with that music.”

“I did not use those words at all. I’m only suggesting that a positive attitude might help when people start asking questions.”  
  
“Because they’re going to ask questions,” Elsa adds and they aren’t just broken records, they’re going in circles and something resembling that cliché about insanity. “Like a lot of questions.”  
  
Emma nods, but she’s not entirely sure what she’s agreeing to. Elsa didn’t ask a question. “Sure,” she says.

She throws her hair spray over her suitcase.

She was aiming for the suitcase.

Elsa glances at Mary Margaret. It’s not as sneaky as she wanted it to be.

“They’ve asked questions before,” Mary Margaret reasons. “It’s not like Emma doesn’t have media training.”  
  
“Yeah,” Elsa says slowly. “But that was, well, before.”

Emma wishes she hadn’t moved away from the wall. Or that she’d put her goddamn clothes in her goddamn suitcase.

It would be easier to fall over if there was somewhere to fall.

As it is, there’s nowhere to fall and nowhere to run, literally or metaphorically, and she’s got a flight to catch and a gold medal to win and questions to avoid.

Politely. Artfully. With a smile on her face.

Her phone buzzes somewhere. And Elsa can’t quite hide the way her eyebrows jump into her hairline.

Emma continues to try and stay upright.

“Here,” Mary Margaret says, holding the still-buzzing phone with an expectant look on her face. Emma continues to ignore that too. “It was underneath the inexplicable amount of mousse you’re bringing with you to South Korea.”

Emma makes another face and she’s dimly aware of whatever it is Elsa mumbles under her breath, something about it _freezing that way_ , but her hand is steady when she takes her phone and her voice doesn’t shake when she answers. She’s not even surprised to find she can _hear_ his goddamn smile from wherever he is.

Probably on the sidewalk outside.

“How many cans of hairspray are you trying to fit into your suitcase right now?” Killian asks and Emma rolls her eyes. Mary Margaret glances at Elsa.

They are all horrible at this.

“That is none of your business,” Emma hisses.

He laughs. Loudly.

_It is fine_.

“I think it will be my business when I end up carrying most of the bags,” he says. “You want to buzz me in or you want me to just look like I’m loitering down here?”  
  
“The second one, definitely.”

“Swan.”  
  
“You didn’t actually tell me you were downstairs yet. Just started making sweeping generalizations about the status of my luggage.”

“There were no generalizations involved, Swan,” Killian grins. She assumes he’s still smiling. She hopes he’s still smiling. “There was several years worth of knowledge regarding your packing tendencies.”  
  
“Were you endorsed by Merriam-Webster at some point?”  
  
He barks out another laugh and Mary Margaret absolutely hears it because Mary Margaret’s eyes absolutely widen and it will be some kind of miracle if they get out of the continental United States without several different gossip websites posting stories about them.

There have already been so many stories.

“Buzz me up, Swan,” Killian says and she does and he only makes eight jokes about the hair products she absolutely does not have to bring with her to the Olympics.

It is, probably, some kind of record.

Mary Margaret and Elsa don’t say anything when he walks into the room, flashing a smile Emma’s direction and turning the music up without asking.

That is also, probably, some kind of record.

Totally fine.

Absolutely fine.

For sure.

“We going to win, Jones?” Emma asks, hours later on a plane they didn’t book themselves. They’re somewhere over somewhere, possibly an ocean, and she’s already lost track of the time difference.

He was absolutely asleep.

Killian hums, a quiet, confused sound that seems to echo through the otherwise silent plane and one of Emma’s feet has gone pins and needles. It’s probably because she’s got her legs draped over his.

Probably.

She’s not a doctor.

“Why are you saying words right now?” Killian mumbles, head lolling to the side and Emma only grunts slightly when it crashes on top of hers.

“I mean, only a few words, really.”  
  
He chuckles, twisting in his seat and they’d moved the arm rest as soon as they sat down. “Ah, that’s true,” he mutters and his voice sounds a little scratchy and just a bit gruff and it’s familiar like a blanket is familiar. A mix of home and comfort and neither one of those things should probably be used to describe a person, but Killian’s not just a person, he’s _Emma’s person_ and her partner and they’re totally going to win.

She wants to hear him say it anyway.

She’s a little selfish like that.

Killian doesn’t say anything.

Emma grumbles. And then nearly growls when he laughs again, the quirk of his mouth obvious even through the slightly tangled mess that his her hair several hours into a fourteen-hour flight.

“You’re being difficult on purpose,” she accuses, pressing a finger into the jut of his hip and that’s playing dirty.

She shouldn’t know that it makes him flinch and, sometimes, when she’d nip her teeth over the same spot it would get him to make that one, particular noise that she still, somehow thinks about.

“I’m being nothing, Swan,” Killian argues, wincing when something in his back cracks. “Because you woke me up. Because I was being something. Asleep. I was being asleep.”  
  
“That’s not even proper sentence structure.”  
  
“I will repeat myself. I was asleep.”  
  
“Can you just answer the question, please?”  
  
“What was the question?”  
  
Emma groans, squeezing her eyes closed and slumping in her increasingly uncomfortable seat. She tries to swing her feet back onto the floor, but Killian has always been far quicker than her and, maybe, that’s part of their problem.

He catches her around the ankle and flashes her _that_ grin, something closer to a smirk and if she thinks about it, she’s never seen him look at anyone else that way.

She doesn’t think about it.

She thinks about it way too much.

“Of course we are, Swan. No matter what,” Killian says and she can’t bring herself to argue with him. “You going to go to sleep now?”

She stabs him in the hip again. And falls asleep four minutes later.

* * *

It starts, as with most things, because David is a complete idiot.

David Nolan’s consistent and dependable idiocy is the reason behind several different things in Emma’s life – her penchant for cinnamon on hot chocolate, how inexplicably good she is at lacing her skates in less than a minute and how she ended up skating with Killian Jones in the first place.

Emma is eight eight years old when she lands in Portland, her third group home in as many years, and she shouldn’t have met David Nolan, but he’s there and his mom’s there and they were dropping off clothes.

Emma takes one of the jackets.

And the upstairs bedroom in their tiny house in Storybrooke.

She gets adopted on a Tuesday and starts skating on a Friday and they have to drive two hours back to Portland, one way, for ice time.

It’s David’s idea.

“It’ll be fun, Em,” he tells her, dragging her out onto a patch of ice that she eyes warily because she’s all too aware that it was only just recently a lake and they’re far enough away from the house that Ruth won’t hear them if she drowns.

She doesn’t drown.

She finds her footing and David, apparently, has some kind of absurd center of balance because he’s really good at those spins their coach eventually tells Emma are called twizzles.

“I told you,” David grins after their first win. Emma squeezes the teddy bear she picked off the ice, the cheers echoing in between her ears and cemented into every corner of her brain and she mumbles _idiot_ before wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging as tightly as she can.

It’s exhausting. It’s exciting. It’s some other adjective that starts with the letter ‘e.’

They compete on the junior circuit and Emma is fourteen when she first hears the murmurs of _Olympics_ and it makes her pulse race.

She and David take the world by some kind of storm, a _fresh face in American skating,_ or so articles that discuss American skating say, and it‘s several other words that all boil down to _fantastic_ until, quite suddenly, it’s not fantastic.

She’s twenty years old and they don’t make the Olympics and David winces every time he does one of those goddamn twizzles.

They hold a press conference.

“There’s an issue with my back,” David says and Emma has to bite her tongue so she doesn’t cry when there are cameras present. “A problem that’s been lingering since last year’s Worlds and after meeting with several doctors, both Emma and I have decided that it’ll be best if I step away from competition.”

It’s a lie.

A blatant lie.

And it makes every single one of her muscles ache and Emma can see Mary Margaret wiping at her cheeks in the corner of the room.

Emma bites her tongue until she tastes blood and blinks far too often and she doesn’t cry, but it’s awfully close because it feels a little bit like the world is ending.

She tries to keep skating, but she doesn’t know how to move without another human being near her and every single note of music sounds decidedly sour and she’s lost her edge – literally and metaphorical.

She’s sitting on the ice, legs splayed out awkwardly at her side, when she hears the footsteps. “Go back home, David. I’m almost done anyway.”  
  
“Yeah, you look it,” he laughs and she hadn’t noticed the second set of footsteps.

Emma’s eyes widen, lips parting with an audible pop and her first thought is that he looks like a skater. His legs aren’t long and he’s got this slightness to him, but there’s a certainty to his shoulders that gives Emma pause and she’s almost positive his eyes actually flash when he looks at her.

Her second thought isn’t quite as dignified.

He’s crazy, stupid good looking.

“I’m going to fix everything, Em,” David announces, clapping the stranger on the back and the stranger is wearing a leather jacket. Emma presses her lips back together. “Killian Jones, meet Emma Swan. Em, meet Killian Jones. You guys are going to win Olympic gold.”

Emma decides she hates Killian Jones at, exactly five thirty-seven after a practice that has gone on far too long.

He groans, running his hand over his face and his hair is sticking to his forehead. “You’ve got to hit the beat, Swan,” he says, straining on every letter like each one is a particular type of challenge.

Like she’s a particular type of challenge.

They’ve been doing this for a month and David keeps promising _it’ll get better_ , but it only seems to be getting worse and Emma absolutely hates Killian Jones.

She’d looked him up that first day – or, rather, called Elsa and her eyes had nearly bugged out of her head when Emma said the name. Because Killian Jones is good. Real good. Olympic-bound, the subject of skating articles kind of good.

But he’d also been a solo skater and had some kind of vaguely horrible reputation and he kept calling Emma _love_ like he knew how much it set her teeth on edge and there was that rumor about him hooking up with his coach, but Elsa didn’t know about that. Emma never asked.

David promised it would be fine.

And Emma trusted David.

He was friends with Killian. He liked Killian. He knew Killian from the junior circuit and everyone in skating knows everyone else in skating and _if you guys can just not kill each other, you’ll be medaling in no time_.

“Swan, are you even listening to me?” Killian snaps, jerking her out thoughts and Emma considers throwing her skate at him.

“I have a name, you know,” she seethes, moving into his space and pressing her index finger into his chest and his eyes are all blue and fire and neither one of them move for an eternity. “Use it.”

“Noted, love.”  
  
She’s going to kill him.

She doesn’t kill him.

She comes up with several, increasingly dramatic ways she’d like to, but she doesn’t.

Because Emma loves skating and she wants to skate and the only way she can do that is by skating with Killian Jones.

So she’s going to make this work.

Except that seems like the single most impossible thing in the world because they fight about everything. They spend most of their practices glaring at each other and arguing over the music choices and the costume choices and it might actually be a miracle when they finally, almost find a rhythm a few months in, landing side-by-sides in perfect tandem during practice.

That’s about as good as it gets.

The first year is, in a word, horrible.

It’s bad and awful and so goddamn disappointing Emma is certain she’s made of it, glaring at Killian as soon as they come off the ice at Four Continents.

They’ve medaled once – a silver at some random event she’d never heard of on the Grand Prix circuit – and it doesn’t mean much of anything because the Olympics are only three years away. They need to win more. They need to win consistently.

They need to stick their fucking side-by-side twizzles.

“What the fuck was that supposed to be?” Emma hisses, trying not to move her mouth too much. She’s far too aware of the cameras. And the distinct lack of cheers. “We weren’t even close to sync’ed.”  
  
“I’m well aware of that, love,” Killian shoots back and every single one of her hairs bristles at the endearment. Or whatever the opposite of endearment is.

He’s doing it on purpose now, she’s positive.

“And,” he adds, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. She nearly trips over her own skates. “You were off on the down beat again. You’ve got to listen to the music, Swan. It’s not all technique.”  
  
She glares at him.

The scores are, as expected, absolute garbage – a tenth-place finish after the short program that doesn’t inspire a single tweet, let alone any headlines or positive articles and Emma is somewhere between desperate and furious by the time they get back to the hotel.

They haven’t said a single word to each other in hours.

And, really, Emma is more than content to just go back to her room and possibly throw every single pillow against the wall, but she knows they’ve got to watch tape and there’s another routine to prepare for and she can’t really breathe.

“Swan?” Killian asks lightly, glancing at her over his shoulder when she freezes in her tracks. A bellhop almost runs her over.

She blinks quickly and her tongue feels like it’s growing at the same time her throat is shrinking and her lungs have, apparently, evaporated or, maybe, they’ve just entered some kind of vacuum where oxygen no longer exists.

Emma doesn’t know. She’s not a scientist.

Killian tilts his head when she doesn’t answer, the look on his face completely foreign. “Emma,” he whispers, brushing his fingers over the curve of her elbow and it might be the softest thing that’s ever happened to her. “Are you alright?”

“We’re really, really bad at this. Like. We are so bad at this.”

It’s obviously not the answer he expects, eyes bugging slightly and Emma’s clearly lost her mind because all she can think about is how blue his eyes are and his fingers are still tracing absent-minded patterns on her jacket sleeve.

Killian barks out a laugh, taking a step into her space and they’d been on the ice a few hours before, but it feels like the closest they’ve ever been. Emma tugs her lips behind her teeth, trying to keep her equilibrium and their feet are almost brushing.

“Embarrassingly bad,” Killian agrees. “And our music is the absolute worst.”  
  
“You don’t like the music?”

“I hate it.”  
  
“God, I feel like that’s something I should have known.”

“I didn’t bring it up.”  
  
“Seems par for the course,” Emma mutters, wincing when she realizes how absolutely bitter it sounds and she’s hit with the sudden realization that they, maybe, never really talked.

Ever.

No wonder they’re awful.

Killian grins. It’s stupid attractive. “Was that a joke, Swan? Are you making sports puns now?”  
  
“Back to the nickname, huh?”  
  
“Birdied on the fourteenth hole.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” she accuses, pressing a finger into his chest.

They both freeze, eyes falling to her hand and Emma can’t move if she tries. She doesn’t try. And the moment seems to stretch on forever, eyes wide and breathing shallow and she swears she can feel the heat of him even through his jacket.

It is entirely possible the world recenters in that moment.

Emma’s still not a scientist.

“True,” Killian admits, a hint of a smile and a flash of _something_ and the music is really bad. She’d been using it with David and there was something, almost, comforting in that, but Emma is suddenly hit with the realization that Killian is not David and this is not the past and she never listens to the down beat.

“Do you like onion rings?” she asks.

Killian smiles. “Who doesn’t like onion rings?”  
  
David never liked onion rings.

Emma refuses to admit it feels like a sign.

They order three servings of onion rings from room service and watch the tape sitting cross-legged on the bed in Emma’s room.

She tells him she focuses on technique because, more often than not, it’s easier to control than to feel and that’s only vaguely terrifying, but her history is, well, her history.

He tells her he started skating because his brother couldn’t afford the hockey equipment he really wanted, only to discover he was pretty damn good at landing jumps.

She tells him about Neal and she was seventeen and he was charming, but distracting and kind of a dick and David never blamed her for that one program in Montreal. It was absolutely her fault.

He tells her about Milah and the rumors that were true and nearly got him to walk away from the rink, but she was married and it was a mistake. He still misses her sometimes.

They sit.

They eat way too many onion rings.

They watch the tape six times.

And they come up with a way to fix it.

They finish in fifth place the next day.

It goes from there.

They’re teammates.

They're partners.

They’re friends.

At some point they might become each other's best friend.

Emma doesn't ever tell Mary Margaret that.

It doesn't matter.

Mary Margaret knows.

Everyone knows.

They medal in their next major event.

And, suddenly, it’s sixteen months from PyeongChang and things are going well. Really well. Too well.

“You’re a pessimist, Swan,” Killian says, sitting in the waiting room they give to pairs in medal position and Emma wants to start pacing.

There are two more programs and they're sitting in first place, still, but she can’t seem to stop fidgeting.

“A realist,” Emma corrects. She stabs her finger into his side, working a smirk out of him that probably gets caught on camera, but she can’t bring herself to think about that when the music for the French team hits her ears.

Emma doesn’t breathe for the next two programs, alternating between heavy sighs and gripping Killian’s hand tightly enough that, at one point during the Canadian program, he mumbles _you’re going to pop a blood vessel, love_. He also doesn’t let go of her hand.

She closes her eyes when the final scores are announced.

“Swan,” Killian mutters. “Swan. Emma!”  
  
“What?”  
  
He nods towards the monitor in the corner and the lights from the cameras suddenly pointed at them feel very bright.

“We won,” Emma breathes. “We won. Did we win just win gold?”

Killian laughs, loud and honest and it shakes down Emma’s spine until it lands somewhere in the realm of her stomach, warming her from the inside out. She’s surprised the ice doesn’t melt. “Why are you phrasing this as a question, love?” he asks, pressing a kiss to her temple and that’s the first time _that’s_ ever happened.

Emma shakes her head slowly, trying to get her to brain to process all the things it’s doing at the moment, but that’s incredibly difficult and she’s still holding Killian’s hand. Or maybe the other way around.

“We won,” she whispers. He kisses her again.

The rumors start the next day. Mary Margaret, eventually, informs Emma they started as soon as the cameras spotted her fingers laced with Killian's, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is there are rumors and questions and probably blog posts about their chemistry because they’ve finally found their chemistry and they keep winning events.

“We’re just friends,” Emma says for what feels like the one-thousandth time, a few hours removed from their short program at Worlds and nearly every question has been about something other than the short program.

Killian glances at her, a smile tugging on the end of his mouth. “Partners,” he adds, voice even and sarcastic. “No matter what.”

Emma kicks him under the table.  

He does something stupid with his eyebrows.

They skate better than they ever have that weekend – a year out away from PyeongChang and another gold medal and their twizzles are somewhere in the realm of perfect and Emma’s heart feels like it’s about to beat out of her chest by the time they get off the podium.

Killian’s hand is always warm when he holds onto Emma’s. She’s noticed it and, possibly, logged it in that back corner of her brain where she keeps _good_ things. It’s practically on fire when they leave another press conference, cameras flashing and questions ringing in her ears and the weight of the medal is heavy around her neck.

“You were brilliant, Swan,” he says, turning on her in the hallway behind the press room. Her heart speeds up. That didn’t seem possible. “Absolutely brilliant.”  
  
“Charmer. Even if the music you picked was a little fairy tale.”  
  
Killian rolls his eyes, but his right hand has found her hip and it’s moving and everything else seems kind of pointless. “Good music. From a movie about fairy tales. And the real world. They spend most of that movie in the real world.”  
  
“Still, it’s about fairy tales.”  
  
“You are the single most stubborn person on the planet, you know that?”  
  
“I do,” Emma says easily, grinning and the muscles in her face are starting to ache. “But, honestly, you did good today. We did good. And, you know, the music wasn’t that bad.”  
  
“Ah, you flatter me, love. That was almost a compliment.”  
  
She groans, rocking her head back and forth and she’s only dimly aware of his smile when she’s trying to push her finger into his chest and that’s kind of become a thing. Killian wrapping his own fingers around her wrist and pulling her hand away is absolutely, positively not part of the thing.

“I can give compliments,” Emma say, but it’s breathless and cautious and there were a lot of questions. The music was totally about a fairy tale.

“Sometimes.”  
  
“Seems kind of rude. Occasionally. At worst.”  
  
“Is that not the same word?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “No. Right? I don’t think so. Maybe we should ask Mary Margaret. I bet Mary Margaret would know.”

“I really don’t want to ask Mary Margaret about that.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No.”

“Right, right,” Emma stammers and they still haven’t moved out of the hallway. It’s loud and there are people everywhere and coaches and skates scraping across tiled floor. She doesn’t remember resting her hands on Killian’s chest.

He needs to blink.

She wishes he would blink.

“Swan,” he says and she can’t quite cope with the way he’s staring at her. It feels like a perfect execution on the technical components.

It’s the least romantic thing she’s ever thought.

She’s not sure if it’s supposed to be romantic – but there were the questions and the rumors and his hand is so impossibly warm on her hip and they just won. They won. There’s got to be some kind of metaphor in there somewhere.

Mary Margaret would think it was a sign.

Emma really needs to stop thinking about Mary Margaret.

So, instead, she absolutely does not think. She moves her hands half an inch and wraps her fingers around his goddamn gold medal and tugs – hard.

To his credit, Killian doesn’t stumble, but his eyes do widen and in the days and weeks and months that follow Emma will spend a lot more time thinking about _that_  particular moment than she’s willing to admit, but then she’s kissing him or he’s kissing her and nothing else really matters.

Emma’s still in her skates, so she doesn’t have to press up on her toes and she’s only fairly certain she’d lose her balance if she tried. She keeps pulling on the medal, trying to pull him closer to her and Killian doesn’t object, just slants his lips over hers and does something absolutely absurd with his tongue until she’s opening her mouth and sighing against him and there’s some kind of impossible rhythm to it all.

Like the music is playing again.

And that’s definitely a metaphor.

Emma rocks up, canting her hips into his and she smiles when he makes some kind of strangled sound in the back of his throat, like he’s been waiting for this or her or them – as some kind of collective unit, even off the ice.

She tries to twist, but Killian’s hands are heavy on her back, holding her against him and she swears he’s smiling. She might be smiling.

She’s definitely smiling.

It doesn’t really surprise her that Killian is incredibly good at kissing her – or maybe she’s incredibly good at kissing him and it just...keeps going. They break apart and come back together and it’s the same give and take they’ve found on the ice, some sort of dance around each other that ends with a lot more touching and a lot more sighing and Emma’s fingers in his hair.

That’s slightly more romantic than her previous thoughts.

At some point, the need to breathe becomes a bit more important than the need to keep making out in the middle of the hallway, but it’s still pretty close and Emma’s shoulders are heaving and her eyes are wide and it kind of feels like her lips might be swollen.

“That was uh…” Killian mutters and Emma silently congratulates herself on rendering him speechless for the first time ever.

She bites her lip, trying to get her bearings or, just, like, control of her life, but that seems absolutely impossible because she just made out with Killian Jones in the hallway. “Yeah, it was,” she says and she’s not sure who’s more surprised, her or him because that might have been an agreement and she doesn’t feel particularly inclined to run away.

Killian smiles, the expression moving across his face slowly and all at once and it’s an impossibility, but that seems to be the trend at the moment.

Par for the course.

Emma groans.

And Killian looks slightly scandalized.

“Emma,” he whispers, thumb brushing over the curve of her jaw. “I’m…”  
  
She wishes he would finish a sentence. Or possibly just kiss her again. “No, no, that’s...” she says and sentence structure is vastly overrated. “It was me. Right?”

“No, love, it wasn’t.” Killian ducks his head and kisses her again and it’s short and sweet and better than the first time because they both get better with practice. “C’mon, Swan,” he continues. “I’ll buy you some onion rings.”


	13. Almost Believing, This One's Not Pretend, Part 2

They don’t really call it anything.

It just...is. They skate and they win and there are more rumors, but they don’t confirm anything and Emma finds it, almost, easy to ignore the talk when she knows how good Killian looks in the morning.

Incredibly good.

Obviously.

“Go back to sleep, Swan,” he mumbles, softer than he probably should when they’ve got a schedule and training and _everything_ in front of them, but it’s warm under the blankets and his arm feels good around her her waist.

She flips, earning a quiet _huff_ and a flash of a smile when his fingers trail over the top of her thigh. “Why are you awake then?”

“Because you steal all the blankets.”  
  
“I do not,” Emma balks, but there’s really no way to argue it when every single piece of bedding is on her side. She has a side. She doesn’t remember that happening.  
  
Killian lifts his eyebrows and the smile has evolved into a smirk. She sticks her tongue out, which is probably the wrong move while they’re both wearing a distinct lack of clothing, but it’s far too easy to _be_ when she’s with him and that’s only slightly terrifying.

“Fine,” she huffs. “I am a blanket thief. You’re some weirdo who doesn’t need an alarm clock.”

“An absolutely scathing insult, love.”  
  
“That’s because it’s early.”  
  
“We seem to be going in circles.”

Emma sighs, but she’s almost charmed by it all and Killian totally knows it. Ass. Or the opposite of that. Something more endearing and, maybe, a bit more relationship’y, but that would require labels and they’re not really doing that.

It’s totally fine.

“Hey,” he says, tapping his fingers on her hip and Emma jumps. “You’re not under attack, Swan. I was just curious where you went. Your eyes got all glossy there for a second.”  
  
“Nowhere,” Emma mutters and the lie is so obvious it almost insults her.

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Honestly.”  
  
“Why’d you wake up so early with such incredibly loud thoughts?”

“I think the music for the new short program is really good.”

She is, easily, the worst liar in the history of the Earth. And Mars. And several other planets and universes on some sort of indefinite scale.

Killian blinks, staring at her like he’s desperately trying to read her mind and frustrated when he can’t. “Oh,” he says and Emma doesn’t think she imagines that hint of something in his voice. It’s disappointment. “Right, well, I’m glad, love. It’s...a little less fairy tale, don’t you think? A bit more classic. Something the judges will appreciate.”

“Exactly. I think that’s good. Don’t you?”  
  
“I picked it, Swan.”  
  
And she’s not really sure when _that_ started happening either, but Killian is really, really good at finding music they can both skate to and feel and something else that might be a little too emotional for whatever time it is in the morning.

The new music isn’t quite like a fairy tale. Emma’s not sure why that’s so disappointing. Or why she doesn’t tell him that.

“Tell me something,” she says suddenly, laughing when it’s his turn to jump.

“Like what?”  
  
Emma shrugs. “I don’t know. Something. Anything. Something good.”  
  
“As opposed to something bad?”  
  
“Why are you being a jerk about this?”  
  
“I’m not being anything, Swan,” Killian argues and his hand hasn’t ever moved away from her hip, thumb tracing out circles on her skin. “I’m confused.”  
  
“Should probably get more sleep then.”  
  
Killian’s eyes narrow slightly, the ends of his mouth quirking up and Emma gets the distinct impression he’s wavering – or balancing in between two choices. Like he’s standing on the edge of his blade. She’s clearly far more metaphorical in the morning than she should be.

“When I first started skating the only time we could get on the ice was early,” he starts. “Impossibly early. I didn’t know that early could exist. But it was the only time we could afford because it was before the hockey practices started and if I’d gone later the ice would have been totally fucked and the guy who was trying to coach me had a real job so he had to--”  
  
“--Trying to coach you?”  
  
“Trying being the operative word here. I’m still pretty certain he was insane, but Liam found him on some actual ice skating message board and he only wanted a hundred bucks a week. He could skate though and it was enough that I learned how to skate and then the rest kind of settled from there. He was God awful at picking music. Or choreographing a routine. I watched a shit ton of videos when I was kid. Broke my wrist trying to do a triple when I was twelve.”  
  
“What, really?” Emma asks and Killian hums, but his gaze is lingering over her shoulder and she knows he’s not really looking at her.

“Terrified Liam. I’d never seen him that mad before. At one point I honestly thought he was going to stab Teach with my own skate.”

She laughs. She doesn’t mean to, but the sound falls out of her and it’s always too easy to smile around Killian. “What?” he asks.

She can’t think when he licks his lips.

“That’s exactly what I considered doing the first time I met you,” Emma admits. “The skate stabbing thing, I mean. I came up with some very detailed plans.”

“That is incredibly aggressive, love.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”  
  
They’re silent for a moment and Emma briefly wonders if he’s fallen back asleep when she feels Killian shift, a cautious move that doesn’t make sense coming from him. “I’m going to ask you a question now,” he says slowly and Emma widens her eyes. “Why’d you agree to this?”

“The bed? Or whatever you’re doing with your hand? Because that’s admittedly kind of distracting.”  
  
“Me, Swan. Why did you agree to me? David was sure...he thought you would, but that first year was--”  
  
“--Awful?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian laughs. Emma nearly sighs when his hand moves away from her hip, but then his fingers are carding through her hair and he’s close enough to rest his forehead on hers. “Terrible. Horrendous. Murder-prone. So why’d you agree? You didn’t have to.”  
  
Emma considers her answer and for one, vaguely terrifying moment she’s not sure she has an answer, but then the words are tumbling out of her and she can’t figure out how to stop them and Killian doesn’t interrupt.

“David was never supposed to find me,” she whispers. “It was coincidence and happenstance and so was skating. It should never have happened, but it did. And it was good. I was good. I’d never really been good at anything before that. Or since then. So the thought of...of losing that kind of made me want to fall over, you know?”  
  
“I guess I thought if I was could just figure out the technique of dancing with someone new that it would all fall into place. That’s how it always worked before. Practice and focus and then it’d, well, I’d be enough. Just stubborn I guess. So I couldn’t walk away from that, even when I wanted to kill you with your own skate. And we...we figured it out. Worth the wait or something, right?”

She shrugs, a desperate attempt at _casual_ that is, somehow, even worse than the lies she’s already told that morning. Killian doesn’t answer immediately, but his gaze is intent on hers and Emma’s never felt more exposed under a pile of stolen blankets in her life.

He smiles, thumb brushing over the curve of her cheek and Emma’s not entirely prepared for the kiss, but it’s slow and easy and it almost matches up with the rhythm she’s positive she can feel in her soul now.

“Not stubborn, love,” Killian murmurs. “Thanks for not giving up on me.”

She kisses him back. And they’re twenty minutes late for practice.

They don’t really call it anything and for a few months it’s good. Really good.

Incredibly good.

Obviously.

Again.

Until they fall. Quite literally. Emma loses her edge on a goddamn, fucking twizzle, directly in front of the judge’s table at Skate America, and there’s less than a year to PyeongChang and it all feels a bit like déjà vu. It feels a bit like a distraction.

They finish outside the top twenty for the first time in nearly two years and it doesn’t get better. The music grates on her ears every time it plays and Killian keeps sighing dramatically during practice and the rumors don’t stop.

They get louder.

As if that’s something rumors can do.

She can’t really break up with him because they weren’t ever really a _thing_ , but they might have been everything and that makes it even worse.

“We have to stop this,” Emma mutters, standing in the middle of a hotel lobby and it almost feels cyclical. That doesn’t make her feel any better.

Killian doesn’t hear her at first, taking two more steps towards the elevators before the words catch up to him and his entire body freezes as soon as he processes them. He turns slowly, hitching his equipment bag up his shoulder, staring at Emma like she’s been replaced by some sort of humanoid cyborg.

That would probably make this less painful.

“What?” he asks softly, but the four letters sound like they’re slamming into her heard. “Stop what?”  
  
“This,” Emma repeats. “You, me. This whole thing. We’re getting...we’re losing our focus.”  
  
“Focus?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Our focus.”  
  
“God, Killian, stop repeating me!”  
  
He takes a step back into her space and Emma can feel the emotion practically crackling off him, frustration and confusion and something else they’ve both refused to name. She retreats. She runs.

Metaphorically.

Theoretically?  
  
Mary Margaret would know.

God.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Swan. It’s been a bad couple of events. We’ll be fine. We’ve still got Nationals and Worlds and there’s no reason to think we won’t make the Team.”

“Of course there is,” Emma argues, voice rising of its own accord and that’s disappointing. “We’ve been awful, Killian! Worse than we were at the start and you know it. You’ve watched the tape. We’re...this can’t happen anymore. The point of all of this was to get to the Olympics. That’s it.”

The words are out of her mouth before she realizes what she’s said and when she does she wishes she hadn’t said them, but it’s not a lie. Killian would have been able to tell.

He swallows, lips forming a thin, straight line and the space between them seems impossibly vast when he takes a step backwards. “Ah,” he nods. “Right. Right, you’re right. All about a medal, huh, Swan? That unwavering focus.”  
  
“Don’t act like I'm the only one who wants that.”  
  
“I’m not, love. Of course I want to medal. The Olympics have been the only thing I’ve thought of since I was thirteen. But this is…” He licks his lips and Emma swears she can feel the splinters in her heart, bits and pieces stabbing several other internal organs until she’s almost surprised to find herself still standing in that hotel lobby. “We should change our music,” Killian finishes. “You hate this classic shit.”

“Oh,” Emma mutters. “Yeah, yeah, I do.”  
  
“I knew it. Alright, well,” he reaches behind his ear, tugging at the piece of hair there and Emma’s knees wobble. “I’ll see what I can do before Nationals.”

He’s gone before Emma can say anything and she’s not sure what she expected, but it wasn’t that. She’s not just a terrible liar. She’s the most selfish person in the world.

She thought there’d be more.

She thought he’d say more.

She thought, maybe, he’d say something.

Emma is a goddamn coward.

They dance to new music at Nationals with new costumes and their twizzles will probably be shown to every single pair ever considering some kind of Olympic dream because they’re _perfect_ and they set a brand-new personal best in the free dance.

They don’t talk about _it_ again. Emma wishes she could stop referring to it as that in her head.

They’re still friends. They tease and they joke and it takes some time for the smiles to feel real, but then they do and it’s, almost, normal.

They make the Olympic team.

And she doesn’t think before she turns towards Killian in kiss and cry, arms around his neck and face pressed into the curve of his shoulder and he hugs her back like it’s the most important thing they’ve ever done.

“No, matter what, Swan,” he whispers and she tries not to cry.

It doesn’t work.

It doesn’t work when they land in PyeongChang either, blinking blearily when they disentangle their limbs and tug on Team USA-provided jackets and Killian’s hand lands on the small of her back when they walk through the Village for the first time.

* * *

The Olympics are...a lot.

That’s the worst description she can possibly come up with, but Emma is, admittedly, a little shellshocked and the Olympics are hectic and the Opening Ceremonies are kind of overwhelming and she’s waited her whole life for this moment, it should be easier.

It should be less goddamn terrifying.

There shouldn’t _still_ be questions about her off-ice relationship with Killian.

It is, apparently, all anyone wants to talk to her about – including other athletes in the Village.

“You totally hooked up with him didn’t you?”

Emma blinks, glancing up over the top of her hot chocolate and it’s not like Killian to be late. They’ve been good for the last few months – finding their rhythm again with, relative, ease and they’re not a favorite for a medal, but there’s _potential for a podium_ or so NBC said during the broadcast Emma probably should have been ignoring the night before claims.

Scott Hamilton seemed very certain.

Scott Hamilton was not an ice dancer.

She and Killian are fine. They’re friends. They’re partners. No matter what. Even when they don’t ever skate to that fairy tale song anymore or talk about anything, but they’ve been too busy winning to do anything even remotely responsible.

The woman in front of Emma is still standing there.

“I’m sorry, what?” Emma asks, doing her best to be polite. It absolutely falls flat.

The woman laughs, a smile that feels almost predatory, and Emma tries to sink further into the chair. “Oh my gosh, I knew it,” she yells. “I knew it! There’s no way two people can look the way you two do without some serious knowledge on the subject.”  
  
“I don’t understand. Look what way?”  
  
“Like you want to rip each other’s clothes off and are intimately aware of what that would entail.”

Emma chokes on her hot chocolate. “Fuck,” she breathes and the woman laughs again. “That is..who the fuck are you?”

“Oh right, that’s rude.” She sticks her hand out and Emma’s far too stunned to do anything except shake it. ”Ruby Lucas. Snowboarder. Big air. Slopestyle. Already meal worthy.”  
  
She points to the glint of gold hanging around her neck and Emma’s almost positive this is a dream. It would make more sense if it were a dream.

And she’s only slightly bitter because they weren’t chosen for the team event and America won bronze, which isn’t gold, but it’s a medal and Emma hasn’t really slept through the night since she got to South Korea.

Or, like, in the last few months.

Shit.

_It’s fine_.

She wonders how much it would cost her to call Mary Margaret. Probably too much. She and Killian aren’t popular enough for sponsorship deals.

“Congratulations,” Emma mumbles when she realizes she hasn’t answered the stranger in front of her. They’re still shaking hands. “So now you’re going for a second medal in what...gossip?”

Ruby grins. “Possibly. Although the big air thing wasn’t a joke. And neither was the other thing, really.”  
  
“You are...brutally honest, you realize that?”  
  
“Ah, yeah, I’ve heard that a few times, actually. And curious. Because I’m not the only one who’s gossiping, you know. You two are the talk of the Village.”  
  
Emma’s stomach rolls and clenches and then executes a perfect interpretation of the music in their short program. “The Village,” she echoes and Ruby hums like it’s the most obvious news in the world. It is. They mentioned it on the NBC broadcast. “Right, right. That’s fine. It’s fine.”  
  
It’s a goddamn lie is what it is, but they’ve got practice and interviews that afternoon and Killian is late.

“That was almost impressive,” Ruby says. “Didn’t quite stick the landing, though.”

Emma opens her mouth to tell her where she can put her goddamn landing, but there are footsteps behind her and she can already _feel_ him or something equally absurd and it’s not really that absurd. She twists in the chair, anger coursing through her veins and she’s not sure if it’s because of gossip or NBC or how unlike him it is to fuck up the schedule and none of that matters because he smiles at her and rests his hand on her shoulder and Ruby’s making some kind of impossible noise.

It’s distracting.

“Where’ve you been?” Emma asks and Killian shrugs.

“Nowhere, Swan. I just had a thing I had a thing I had to get done, but we’re late. So we better get going before they give our ice time away.”  
  
“Can they do that?”  
  
“I have no idea, no sense in testing the theory though, huh?”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, ignoring the, still, relative stranger with a medal behind her, and Killian’s hand falls back to his side when she stands up. “Yeah,” she says. “Let’s not press our luck.”

“You alright, Swan?” Killian asks, hours later and just ahead of an interview on some NBC offshoot that she hopes Mary Margaret and David don’t see. They’ll be able to see the tension in her shoulders.

They’re a day out of their short program and practices have been several dozen positive adjectives and they’ve been fine, but it kind of feels like they’re still dancing even when they’re sitting in vaguely uncomfortable seats on a set with lights that hurt her eyes.

And the music is good. The costumes are good. Their twizzles are phenomenal.

They’re ready.

“Definitely,” she says, but Killian arches an eyebrow and that’s not even fair. “Absolutely.”  
  
“Same word, love,” he mutters and Emma nearly falls out of the chair. That would probably mess up her microphone.

It takes a moment for it to sink in, Killian tilting his head in confusion and that set is very loud because Emma’s fairly certain the host doesn’t know a single thing about ice dancing. He sighs when he realizes – that’s the first time he’s said _that_ in months.

“Swan, I…” Killian starts and they clearly used up all their luck on getting to practice on time. There are shouts and directions and the host flashes them a smile when he drops into the chair opposite of them. Emma shakes her head and Killian snaps his mouth closed, a muscle jumping in his temple when he grips the armrest like it’s going to fly away otherwise.

The questions are, for the most part, pretty standard.

Their return to form. Winning Nationals. How well they’ve settled into the new routine over the last few months.

And then, suddenly, they’re exactly what she’s dreaded.  
  
“So,” the host says slowly and Emma can’t remember what his name is. “Any truth to those rumors about your relationship off the ice? There’s, uh, well, there’s quite a lot of chemistry between the two of you, isn’t there?”

Emma freezes, eyes going wide enough that they water, and Killian’s jaw clenches, tongue darting between his lips when he takes a deep breath. The host smiles. And waits.

Because they’re on TV.

They’re at the Olympics.

And people always asked.

“We’re partners,” Killian answers after what’s felt like several eons of dead air. “No matter what.”  
  
“No matter what,” the host parrots back, lifting his eyebrows with that same smile and Emma swears she hears someone snicker off camera.

She will, eventually, plead temporary insanity, but, mostly, she’s just pissed off and tired and still as much of a coward as she was ten months ago and when she was eight years old and nothing really ever changes.

“We were together for a little while,” Emma says, ignoring the host’s bugging eyes or how white Killian’s knuckles get when he holds onto the chair. He gapes at her, shoulders moving and eyes impossibly blue and she tries to hold her ground.

She is sitting down.

“But, eventually, we decided that it was better to focus on our skating,” Emma continues. “We’ve been on a roll this season and we’ve got our eyes on gold. That’s all there is to it.”  
  
It is, without a doubt, the biggest lie she’s ever told.

Killian is still staring at her.

They smile and nod for the next forty-five seconds, the slightly-stunned host and crew wrapping things up and Mary Mary might be having some kind of fit fourteen hours away. Emma is positive her phone is going to blow up from Elsa’s text messages.

And she’s not sure her legs will work when she slides off the chair, but then Killian’s hand is around her wrist and that same sense of déjà vu hits her.

Hard.

“What the fuck was that?” he growls. “That was...we never talked about that, Emma.”  
  
She deserves that.

And she doesn’t have an answer, but it was another question and there’s always been questions and she’s so tired.

“I don’t know,” she admits.

“Not good enough.”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t part of the plan, for whatever it’s worth.”  
  
“What was the plan, then?” Killian asks sharply, but there’s a note of something that makes Emma’s whole body feel heavy and it’s kind of what she’s been trying to name for the last ten months. “Because this is not going to work, Swan. I can’t keep up with the whiplash.”  
  
“I know. I know. I just….he asked and people have always asked and I mean, it’s true isn’t it?”

Killian stutters at that, opening his mouth and closing it four times before he tugs his lips behind his teeth and takes another deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”  
  
Neither one of them acknowledges the present tense in those sentences.

That’s probably best for Emma’s sanity.

“Can I ask you a question?” Emma asks and Killian smirks because she’s going to do it no matter what. “Why did you agree to this?”

“An interview with NBC? I think America decides that, Swan.”

“That’s not what I mean.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” He’s trying to steal all the oxygen in the room, she’s convinced, taking another deep breath, but his smile doesn’t waver and his fingers are still warm on her skin. “Is it strange that this is the first time we’re talking about this?”  
  
“I haven’t really asked the question if you want to get technical.”  
  
“Ah, but I know you, don’t I? No need for actual words in a relationship like that.”

Emma doesn’t gasp, which feels a bit like a victory, but she bites her lip and that’s almost worse. “You’d never skated pairs before,” she says. “And it’s not like you grew up dancing or anything. You wanted to be a hockey player.”  
  
“You’re presenting me facts now.”  
  
“Why did you agree to skate with me? There was no...there was no reason for you to do that. Ever.”

Killian rocks towards her and it feels familiar and far too comforting, but then he thinks better of it and she has to stretch her arm slightly when he takes a step back. “That’s not true, Swan.”  
  
“Then why? Can you just tell me why? Please.”

“Because I knew I couldn’t do it on my own,” Killian whispers. “Not anymore. Not after everything with Liam and Milah and because I’d done my research.”

“Research?”  
  
“You think I’d just agree to some kind of life-long partnership without watching you skate, love? Give me a bit more credit.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but it’s a normal conversation and it feels a bit like flirting. Everything with them feels a bit like flirting. God.

“You were…” he continues and the deep breath is more of a sigh. “It didn’t happen often, but, sometimes, when you weren’t thinking about it, you settled into everything and it was...I’d never seen anything like that. Like it was all moving through you And it was, well, it was a little selfish.”  
  
“Selfish? How?”

He doesn’t pause before he answers. That feels important.

Emma knows it’s important.  
  
“I wanted to see if I could be part of that,” Killian says, brushing his thumb over the back of her wrist. “But you’ve got a habit of thinking too much sometimes, love. You’ve got to feel it. Otherwise it’s just a routine.”

“You and me, right?” Emma asks. “No matter what.”

“No matter what.”

_It's fine._

_It’s fine._

_It is fine._

It’s not fine. And no amount of silent mantra’ing or pep talks from friends and strangers alike is going to change that and Emma has absolutely fucked up.

She doesn’t sleep at all that night.

“Swan,” Killian mutters a few hours before their Olympic debut. He lifts his eyebrows when she scowls at him, sitting against the full-wall mirror in the warm-up room with his chin resting on one of his knees. “You’ve got to sit down, love. You’re making me dizzy.”  
  
“That seems problematic.”

“Your undiagnosed restless leg syndrome?”  
  
“What? No. You can’t be dizzy. It’s going to fuck with our synchronization.”

He stands up quicker than she’s entirely ready for, that same, understanding look on his face that does something to her own balance and Emma growls when he tugs one of her headphones out of her ear. “Our synchronization is fine,” he says, low and confident and she can’t bring herself to argue. Or remember why she wants to.

“That was a surprisingly good pep talk.”  
  
“Say twizzle twenty times,” Killian suggests. “You’ll make yourself laugh and break some of that tension in between your shoulder blades.”

It works as soon as he says it.

Huh.

Emma hasn’t responded to any of Mary Margaret or Elsa’s questions about the interview.

She’s a shitty friend.

“That’s such a dumb word,” Emma mumbles, letting her head fall against Killian’s chest and the music is very loud in the one headphone she still has. He chuckles against her, an arm wrapping around her waist, and she can feel his smile even through her hair.

“The dumbest. Where did that even come from?”

“You know, I actually have no idea.”  
  
“Unlike you not to question everything, Swan.”  
  
Emma swats at his side, but he’s still laughing and she’s breathing easier and they spend the next twenty minutes researching the etymology of the word twizzle. Killian whispers it in her ear as soon as they get on the ice and there will be messages and blog posts and that one article about the smile on Emma’s face, but she’s far too busy having the _skate of her life_ to notice.

They break their previous best and the cheers rattle around in her skull, which is a disgusting way to describe it, but Emma’s running on adrenaline and hope and the feel of Killian’s fingers twisted around her own when they announce their scores.

She might cry.

She’s lost all control of her emotions.

There are more questions and more cameras, but Killian is next to her and Emma doesn’t let go of his hand, even when they sit at a table with their names on placards and _second place_ superimposed on a graphic for TV.

“I don’t think we can get onion rings here,” Killian says later and Emma’s close to falling asleep standing up. “But I did see those potatoes on a stick a couple days ago.”  
  
Emma smiles, head on his shoulder and it’s the most she’s smiled in months. Ten months. Exactly. “Seems still within the realm of onion ring-type celebratory food.”

“C’mon, Swan. My treat.”

He falls asleep before her, laptop propped up against his knees with his head in her lap and she only briefly considers waking him up. That lasts all of two seconds. She closes the laptop and tries to move slowly, inching back down his side once she gets a pillow under his head.

And everything feels suddenly different and far too familiar as soon as Killian’s arm wraps around her waist, pulling her back against his side, a mumbled _go to sleep, love_ in her ear.

They don’t go through their normal routine the next day, which is good because Emma’s not sure what she’d do if they messed it up, so it makes more sense just do something different.

She ignores the meaning behind that.

They eat more of those potatoes on a stick and listen to the music and skate through the routine with ease because they’re good and confident and the music sounds different, like it’s trying to prove a point as soon as their blades land on the ice.

It’s not actually quiet – can’t be quiet, there are PA announcements and cheers and they just need to skate a clean performance and they’ll be on the podium. That’s what NBC said last night.

Emma doesn’t think NBC would lie to her.

It’s not actually quiet, but Emma can hear her own breathing in her ears, ragged and uneven and she can feel Killian’s eyes on her when they take their starting positions.

He leans over – and it’s against the rules that aren’t really rules and might just be her own schedule for her life and how skating is supposed to be, but that’s never quite been the case with _them_ and Emma smiles when the tips of his fingers brush over hers.

“No matter what,” she whispers and she knows he hears her.

The music starts and it all becomes second nature, as easy as breathing and just as important and every move is an extension of her, some sort of impossible sense of calm that doesn’t make sense on the international stage.

It’s perfect. It’s several other hyperbolic adjectives.

And she almost doesn’t feel the skid of her blade on the ice, the hitch of it making her stutter slightly and Killian’s hand grips her waist a bit too tightly.

And, suddenly, it’s not the best they can skate.

The form isn’t quite perfect and the music feels a bit raw, every note sinking into the pit of her stomach, making it difficult to move her skates, and Emma’s lungs are trying to shrink, the air in the arena suddenly thick and thin at the same time.

She can’t say anything. He can’t say anything. They have to keep skating.

But they know it’s wrong.

It’s not enough.

Emma closes her eyes, trying not to snap in half right there on the ice and it’s as if someone has flicked a switch in the back of her head. She doesn’t care. She’s going to skate because she can.

Not because she has to.

She reaches behind her, not surprised to feel Killian’s fingers, lace through hers, the slight squeeze like a jolt to her entire system and as soon as Emma leans back, she knows they’ve done the trick perfectly.

It’s not particularly hard, but they’d never really been able to get it perfectly – a jump and a landing and one leg wrapped around his waist and neither one of Emma’s skates are touching the ice when she hears the roar of the crowd.

The rest of the program is a blur of moves and hits and their twizzles are perfect, but then it’s over and Emma’s not sure she can stay upright.

She doesn’t have to.

She turns on the spot, body sagging forward and head crashing into shoulder and collarbone in equal measure and Killian doesn’t move. He doesn’t stumble or flinch or do anything except hold onto her as tightly as he can and maybe that’s kind of been the theme since the very beginning.

He kisses her hair, mumbling words into her ear that she can’t quite make out, but Emma is certain she’ll be able to remember every single one for the rest of her life.

And possibly after.

That’s weird.

She doesn’t want it to be weird.

And she knows it’s not the time or the place or the moment, but it might be all three at the same time and he’s staring at her like she’s some kind of celestial being when she leans back.

“Why?” Emma asks, the pinch in between Killian’s eyebrows doing something absurd to her knees.

His lips move, an attempt at a smile that makes her believe she’s some sort of celestial being and it’s the single most absurd thing she’s ever thought in her life, but they’re still standing on the ice and they skated in the Olympics and _no matter what_ always felt like a promise.

He doesn’t ask what she means or question back or do anything except bend his legs and tug her up towards him and every part of Killian touches every part of Emma when he holds her.

“Because it was always you, Emma,” he says. “The whole time. No matter what.”

She considers kissing him on the ice.

She does.

But that seems, somehow, unfair and she’s probably surprised him enough for one Olympics, enough whiplash for several lifetimes and he might already know it was always him too.

He was, after all, always half a step quicker than her.

“Thank you,” Emma says instead, pressing her lips to the side of his neck and holding on like she’s trying to keep her center of gravity.  
  
Waiting for scores is some kind of modern torture, a few minutes that feel like several lifetimes and Killian makes another joke about _circulation_ and _continued use of my fingers, love_ , but he doesn’t try to let go and Emma doesn’t move.

They’re good scores.

They’re first-place scores. There are four more skaters.

Emma sighs when their names fall to fourth and some Olympic worker in an all-white outfit is trying to usher them out of the green room or whatever it’s called and Killian’s cursing under his breath. She laughs. She doesn’t expect that.

She expects tears and disappointment and crushing blows to her self esteem, but the smile on her face feels genuine and she can’t stop laughing.

“Swan,” Killian starts, brushing a piece of hair out of her eye and that doesn’t do much to help. She laughs louder, body shaking with it until her stomach aches and her abs are tense and--

“--We skated in the Olympics,” she says, a hint of wonder sand disbelief and they just did that. _They just did that_. Killian beams at her. “We skated in the Olympics!”  
  
“We did, love. That was...I’m glad we were here.”

“Me too. And I’m…”

She cuts herself off because there aren’t really the words for an explanation that won’t fall flat or come up short or some other vaguely sports-type cliché, but they’ve always been kind of dancing around each other and, well, they just danced at the Olympics, so she’s not sure there’s any reason to keep it up.

“The whole time,” she says instead, still not an explanation, but almost a reason and Killian exhales softly. “And I couldn’t...I never wanted to lose you.”

He scoffs, eyes a hint brighter than they’ve been since they landed in South Korea and they’re back in another hallway. That feels oddly appropriate. “Not even if you tried, Swan.”  
  
“I kind of tried.”  
  
“Kind of. But we’re both a little stubborn when we want something, aren’t we?”

“Decidedly,” Emma agrees. “You know what I think we should do?” He doesn’t answer, just lifts his eyebrows and it’s infuriating and attractive and she’s known she loved him for what feels like forever, but the feeling seems to simmer under her skin in that moment, warm even when they’re still near the ice and not kissing him is some kind of impossible task. She does it anyway.

“I think,” Emma continues, “we should skate to the fairy tale music for the gala.”  
  
And, really, if she’s going to keep making these sweeping comparisons about space, she should probably be able to come up with a way of describing how Killian looks at her right then, like a meteor or a comet or some kind of shooting star, but all of those feel decidedly melodramatic and Emma didn’t have to worry about not kissing him.

He’s kissing her.

Time is cyclical or whatever.

Until he laughs, not bothering to move away from her mouth and Emma is both slightly confused and slightly annoyed that he’s not still kissing her.

“What is happening right now?” she demands.

Killian catches her lips with his, quick and just a little dirty and it’s distracting in the best kind of way. “Why do you think I was late before, love?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Late. When you were talking to that snowboarder.”  
  
“I have no idea.”

“I paid Mary Margaret a considerable amount of money to send those costumes here.”

“What?” Emma repeats and Killian laughs again, but she can’t come up with another word and there are other people in the hallway. “But we were...we didn’t know what we’d skate to in the gala.”  
  
He shrugs. “Eh, I had some hope.”  
  
It might be the single most romantic thing she’s ever heard.

They eat more potatoes on a stick later and they still don’t call _it_ anything, but the next few days pass in a blur of sports she’s never heard of before and South Korean street food she never wants to see again and Mary Margaret’s first text just reads _good_ with several dozen exclamation points.

It’s strange to hear the music again, but as soon as Emma’s skates land on the ice and Killian’s eyes find hers, the music seems natural and a little less fairy tale because they’re still skating at the Olympics and she swears she can feel each beat in the very center of her.

They move like they’re sharing one wavelength – or so that one blog post Elsa will, eventually, send her says – and Emma’s never smiled that much on the ice, never skated that fluidly, like she’s part of the it and part of the song and maybe she’s lost her mind, but it’s kind of nice and they hit every step in perfect sync.

There are camera clicks and _ooohs_ and _ahhhs_ and Killian smiles at her when they spin, twisting and turning and nothing gets caught on the ice.

It’s over before she wants it to be, the notes hanging in the air and she can’t hear herself when the crowd starts to cheer, just knows that she’s talking and Killian mutters _what_ under his breath.

“I love you,” she says, again, and she’s pleasantly surprised to find that it’s kind of easy. It’s kind of nice. It’s distinctly better than fine.

It’s the best thing in the history of anything.

Honestly.

He swallows, eyes wide and mouth hanging open and the internet’s going to have a field day with this, but it’s the Olympics and that seems like a good enough reason to change your entire life. Or, possibly, fix your entire life.

They’re still on the ice, so kissing is out, but his arms tighten and she feels like he’s pressing the words into her when he speaks, right next to the music and the emotion and Emma clearly needs to sit down.

“I love you,” he says, simple and honest and they need to get off the ice. There’s an Olympic official shouting at them. “God,” Killian laughs, brushing his lips over Emma’s temple and the crowd sounds like it’s exploding. “That kind of takes away from the mood doesn’t it?”  
  
“No,” Emma promises. “That’s just...us.”

Killian hums, grinning at her when they slide on skate guards and there aren’t any scores, but there are still teddy bears on the ice and flowers and _they’re_ not over yet.

“Good word,” he mutters, wrapping an arm around her shoulders when they, finally, sit down.

It goes from there.

They go home, they define things, they keep skating.

And they stop ignoring questions.

“There’s not really any point, Swan,” Killian reasons after they’ve made it back on the podiums for Worlds and silver isn’t quite as good as gold, but it matches their costumes, so that’s some kind of positive. “Who can deny that kind of chemistry?”

She rolls her eyes, but she can’t argue because he’s holding her hand underneath the table and he keeps trying to tap his toe on hers, some kind of game they came up with when they decided they didn’t hate each other anymore, and Killian smiles when he realizes he’s won.

“Yeah, talk to me about chemistry when we get gold,” Emma says.

NBC uses the clip in their Olympic promos three years later and they’re not first-timers anymore, they’re _veterans_ and slightly older and _this might be their last shot_ and no one asks them about their relationship off the ice.

Every single person knows.

Which, really, makes it a hell of lot easier to kiss him in the middle of the ice as soon as the last notes of their free dance echoes in the arena.

And after the announce their scores.

And as soon as they hang gold medals around their necks at the top of a podium with their friends there because, this time, there was no staying home, there was no question.

There was just them. Winning.

No matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, so that was a lot of words. I am who I am, y'know? I'm real sad the Olympics are over, still thrilled the US women won gold, still vaguely displeased with the US men and I cried a lot about sports in the last two and a half weeks. 
> 
> As always, come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	14. Gone the Way of the Dinosaurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma doesn't entirely understand the town of Storybrooke. 
> 
> It is, apparently, the kind of place with story time at the library and spring festivals on Friday night and unfairly attractive people with blue eyes who know all the words to the dinosaur song her kid is also inexplicably singing. 
> 
> She doesn't understand the town of Storybrooke yet, but maybe Emma is willing to do a little research.

“Alright kid, should we go over the rules again?”  
  
Henry doesn’t answer, bouncing on the balls of his feet and and mumbling a string of words that sound suspiciously like several different types of dinosaurs and that seems like a pretty good sign that they should probably go over the rules again. At last count Emma has come up with sixteen different rules for their  _fun day at the library_ which is really what Mary Margaret called it because this whole thing was Mary Margaret’s idea, but Mary Margaret is not going to be there and Emma is only kind of worried about, well, everything.

And then like...sixteen other things.

She’s not sure why she keeps harping on the number sixteen.

Probably to feel like she’s got control over anything.

The truth of the matter is, however, that she’s got control over a negative amount of things and there are still far too many unpacked boxes in the little apartment she and Henry have just moved into and David gave her a week to get  _settled in_ , before she starts her job at the station with him, and that’s good and great and all of those vaguely positive types of words, but it also means a week of Mary Margaret-supplied social events and Storybrooke cannot possibly be a real place.

It is, after all, called Storybrooke.

There are flowers on window sills and an actual Main Street and Emma’s not sure she’s seen a stop light yet. Storybrooke is the kind of place with  _story time_ at the library at three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon and a spring festival on Friday night, the kind of place where she can have a week to settle in because there’s not actually any crime in a place like Storybrooke.

It’s quiet and, maybe, a little magical and that’s an absurd thought, but Henry is still talking about dinosaurs and Emma knows David had to talk to several different people to get her this job when her whole life is falling apart.

Or was.

She’s not great with tenses. And nothing falls apart in Storybrooke – Emma is, at least, certain of that.

“Ma, ma, ma, ma,” Henry shouts, voice clipped like it does when he gets excited and he’s already so goddamn excited about their  _fun day at the library_ that she almost forgets she’s supposed to be nervous about it.

There will be people there.

There will be new people there. There will be other kids and other moms and, in addition to tenses, Emma’s never really been great with any of those things either. She’s had Mary Margaret and David and that’s always been enough, but then everything in Boston went to shit and she needed somewhere to go and now she’s got to...socialize.

It’s intimidating.

Maybe she should go over the rules for herself.

Emma huffs out a far too dramatic exhale for how goddamn sunny it always appears to be in Storybrooke, crouching in front of her kid and trying to hold him down with heavy hands on his shoulders. It doesn’t really work.

She refuses to accept the idea that it is some kind of sign.  

“The rules,” Emma says, doing her best to sound stern. “What were the rules?”  
  
Henry doesn’t immediately respond, doing his best to, instead, try and climb _over_ her and she’s got to at least give him a few points for effort. She huffs again, letting go of one shoulder to wrap around his waist. “Kid,” Emma mutters, but it’s like trying to coax some type of humanoid octopus back into a metaphorical cage and she has no idea where she’s going with this example. “Rule number six was that we don’t try and climb anything. That includes me.”   
  
Henry laughs – mostly in her ear. “Dinosaurs lived a long time ago,” he yells and she can barely make out the words, syllables jumbled together, but it kind of sounds like he’s singing. “They were terrible lizards, donchaknow?”

“What?” Emma asks. It’s definitely a song and her three-year-old is, apparently, very well-versed in it. “Kid. Kid. Henry,” she says sharply, glancing up to find his eyes wide and his lower lip trembling and Emma is going to glare at Mary Margaret for, like, a solid five minutes for suggesting this whole library thing.

They should have just watched TV.

“We’ve got to use our quiet voices when we go inside, ok?” Emma continues and they’ve staved off any tears for now. Storybrooke might also be a place for exceptionally small miracles. “We’re going to go in and we’re going to see M’s friends and we’re, maybe, going to make a few friends of our own and get a few books because that’s how libraries work and then we’re going to go home so we can finally figure out where my boots ended up, ok?”  
  
She’s well aware that Henry only picked up on a few dozen words in her mini soliloquy, but he’s nodding and not crying and those small miracles keep popping up.

Until he starts singing again.

At the top of his lungs.

“They were terrible lizards, donchaknow?”

“I think that last one was supposed to be several different words, actually. Don’t you know. If memory serves.”

Emma glances up, her calves aching from overuse and Henry’s moved on to a different line of a song she’s never heard before. Her gaze lands on the source of the vaguely opinionated voice – a mess of dark hair and blue eyes with his arms crossed lightly over his chest as he rocks back on his heels.

There’s a confident casualness to it all that sets her teeth on edge, a jarring difference from the  _frantic mom_ look she’s currently sporting and she’s wearing Mary Margaret’s flats. There are bows on them.

Emma needs to find her goddamn boots.

“Memory,” she echoes and the man’s eyebrows join in on whatever it is they’re doing, lifting into his hairline. “What kind of memory?”  
  
The man grins. “A musical one.”

“Is that an actual song?”  
  
“It is,” he nods. “Not a particularly good one and the title is…” He glances quickly at Henry, tugging his lips back behind his teeth like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something inappropriate around a kid still singing about dinosaurs. “Well, let’s say it’s less than creative.”   
  
“What’s it called?”

His grin gets bigger. “Dinosaur song.”  
  
“You’re making that up,” Emma accuses and it’s probably not the best first impression she’s ever made, but she can feel a headache blossoming at the base of her skull and she hopes they're given snacks at the library. She should have asked Mary Margaret more questions.

“I’m not,” the man promises. “Why is that your first assumption?”  
  
Emma blinks, slightly stunned by the return volley of slightly misplaced sarcasm and Henry has moved on to a different verse. “Why are you assuming that that’s my first assumption?” she counters, standing back up and tilting her head in challenge. “Maybe I made all kinds of silent assumptions before I got to the vocal one.”

“That would admittedly be disappointing.”  
  
She’s going to set some kind of blinking record. “What? Why?”   
  
“Why would I want you to be making sweeping generalizations about me based solely on...I'm assuming appearance?”   
  
Emma arches an eyebrow and her neck feels like it’s going to get stuck at whatever angle she’s currently got it tilted at. “Think awfully highly of yourself, don’t you?” she asks. “Do you also normally approach strangers on the street and correct lyrics to a song I’m still not convinced you’re not lying about?”   
  
“I’m not lying.”   
  
“That was only one answer.”

“This feels a bit like an interrogation.”  
  
“You sound like you know who I am.”   
  
“Consider it an assumption,” he says, a flash of a grin and a spark in his eyes and Emma glares harder. She might not talk to Mary Margaret later. “And Ruby’s done nothing except talk about your impending arrival for the last two weeks. She’s every excited and I’m going to,” he pauses for dramatic effect, leaning into her space and that’s just dumb, honestly, “  _assume_ , that the brand-new face in town with the cute kid is the same Emma Swan with the cute kid who’s coming to save Storybrooke’s increasingly aggressive rise in crime.”

“You know Ruby?”  
  
“I know Ruby. And her wife and her own incredibly adorable kid. Trust me, love, everyone in this town knows everyone else and most of them are either related or staging some kind of picket-fence life.”

“Not your love,” Emma mumbles, certain the twitch of his lips is some kind of test from several different gods. “How do you know Ruby?” He opens his mouth to answer, but she waves her hands and his eyebrows might actual be their own separate entities from the rest of his body. “And if you tell me that this still sounds like an interrogation I will honestly kick you in the shins.”

He laughs, soft and honest and it might be one of the nicest things she’s heard in the last two weeks. “It probably doesn’t bode well for the sheriff to be adding to Storybrooke’s increasingly aggressive rise in crime, right?”  
  
“I’m not the sheriff yet and I don’t think there’s really much of a threat of anything in this town. Also you are incredibly good at avoiding the questions.”   
  
“Well, I wasn’t sure when I agreed to the interview. Although I did, as you pointed out, interrupt.”

“How do you know Ruby?”  
  
“I know Ruby through her wife.”   
  
“I don’t think I know her wife,” Emma admits, tracing back through the string of faces and names shoved her direction in the last few days. “Do I know her wife?”

The guy hums noncommittally, grinning again, or maybe hasn’t stopped grinning since he interrupted the conversation, eyes flitting towards Henry with interest when he starts jumping up and down again. Emma’s half a second away from asking another question, but the words get caught on the tip of her tongue when this guy crouches in front of her son and smiles at him like he’s the most interesting thing he’s seen all day. Or, like, ever.

“You know all the words to the dinosaur song?” he asks and Henry nods enthusiastically. “Who taught you? I don’t think it was your mom.”  
  
Emma sighs. The guy keeps smiling.

“Uncle David,” Henry answers. Or shouts. Whatever. And Emma needs to find some paper so she can make a list of all the people she needs to glare at later.

“Ah, of course.”  
  
“Do you know David too?” Emma asks skeptically.

“Should I repeat the quip about families and relationships from before or…”

“Ma, ma, ma, ma,” Henry repeats again, tugging on her jacket sleeve and they’re going to be late for storytime.

Emma shakes her head, but she’s not sure if it’s from disbelief or something inching almost closer to charmed, but whatever it is makes her stomach twist.

She’s about to say something – something equal parts attractive and scathing and it’s going to leave some kind of lasting impression on whatever his name is. Like a meteor. Or a comet. Or something.

There might be a dinosaur joke in there somewhere, but she hasn’t read enough books about it and someone is shouting her name.

Ruby Lucas is a boundless force of energy and enthusiasm and her own personal brand of scathing retorts, wrapped in incredibly on-point outfits and highlights that always seem a bit brighter every time Emma sees her.

“Em,” Ruby calls again, like she didn’t see her and wasn’t having some kind of existential crisis in front of the library. “What are you doing out--oh, hey, Jones.”  
  
The guy tilts his head, gaze darting from Ruby to Emma and back to Henry. “It’s always a pleasure, Lucas.”

“Why are you guys lurking out here? They’re supposed to start in like half a second.”  
  
“That’s oddly specific.”   
  
Ruby narrows her eyes, hitching up the baby on her hip who seems particularly interested in the fire-engine red highlights in her hair. “Ok,” she says, dragging the letters out until it sounds like she’s reading every single book in the library behind them. “Well this is weird. Why is this weird?”   
  
“It’s not weird,” Emma argues, far too quickly to be anything except the lie it is and it’s definitely weird. And also not. Which makes it weirder.

“Right. Right. Ok, well, I’m going to go inside now and save us some seats.”

She’s gone before making any other sweeping observations and that might be the  _biggest_ miracle that’s happened since Emma’s gotten to Storybrooke.

Jones – there’s still no first name to this equation – digs the toe of his shoe into the sidewalk, staring at the ground. “It’s Killian,” he says and Emma has to strain to hear him over the sound of her own goddamn heartbeat. It’s absurd.

“What?”  
  
“I knew your name and Lucas shouted half of mine, so it only felt fair to finish that particular train of thought. Killian Jones.”   
  
He doesn’t stick his hand out, doesn’t really even move, just stands there staring straight at Emma like he can read her mind and she’s almost certain he can because she was absurdly curious and a little intrigued and Henry’s going to rip her hair out of her head if they stand there any longer.

Killian grins, but it’s almost nervous and a little cautious, which is even more endearing and that’s honestly not even fair on a human being as attractive as he is.

Huh. Emma doesn’t entirely expect  _that_ particular train of thought. And it’s totally true.

She wishes she knew the lyrics to the dinosaur song if only so she had something to distract herself with.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says instead and it’s not a lie, but it’s a little embarrassing because there’s a kid clinging to her and still singing and if this is some kind of meet-cute she feels like it’s kind of lacking.

He nods, smile settling on his face like it belongs there. “We should get in there, Swan. I don’t think Lucas was lying about starting on time.”  
  
“Wait, we?”   
  
“Do you think I’m just lurking around the library in the middle of the afternoon for fun? Anything besides going inside to help seems slightly nefarious.”   
  
“Those were a lot of words. Should I be concerned about you? Do they have your drawing up in the post office or something?”   
  
“Storybrooke is old fashioned, but I’m not entirely sure it’s that ancient.”   
  
“Don’t you have a job?” Emma asks, the question falling out of her mouth before she realizes how presumptuous it sounds. Killian, for his part, doesn’t look insulted, only passably amused and it does something ridiculous to, like, every inch of her.

“I do. Later. As in not now.”  
  
“That’s usually what the word later means.”   
  
His eyes flash, a glimpse of  _something_ and it’s probably not healthy to feel several dozen human emotions at the same time, but Emma’s doing a pretty good job and her knees appear to be suffering for it. “C’mon, Swan,” he continues, nodding towards the open door of the library. “I’m sure Ruby saved you absolutely fantastic seats.”

Ruby did, in fact, save them pretty fantastic seats – which is not a sentence Emma thought she’d ever come up with when discussing story time at the library, but that is, apparently, the life she lives now and story time also appears to include sock puppets.

The whole thing is idyllic in some kind of sitcom way, sunlight pouring into the room and there are kids everywhere and laughter and Ruby keeps making faces at the absolutely adorable baby she can’t seem to put down.

That’s probably why it takes so long for the questions to start.

It’s nearly an hour and several fairly epic puppet shows later and Emma’s legs are starting to cramp from the wooden chair she’s sitting on, pointedly ignoring Ruby’s furtive glances as the librarian – Belle? Her name might be Belle – asks for suggestions for their last story.

Henry starts shouting about dinosaurs and it’s enough to get Belle’s attention, an easy smile on her face and a quiet hum when she presses up to grab a book off the shelf behind her. She’s got dinosaur puppets too.

Of course she does.

Emma makes a mental note to ask her where she got them because Henry seems particularly attached to the one that might be a triceratops.

“So…” Ruby starts slowly, dragging the word out and Emma rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. “What was that about before?”  
  
“You exercised such good self control before,” Emma sighs. “What changed?”   
  
“Henry’s not here.”   
  
“The dinosaur thing is a pretty serious phase.”   
  
“It’s cute. Answer my question.”   
  
“God, you’re the most demanding person I’ve ever met.”   
  
“Eh,” Ruby objects. “Mary Margaret got you to move to Storybrooke based almost solely on soft sighs and that thing she does with her face that makes you feel guilty about everything you’ve ever even considered doing. So, you know, grand scheme.”   
  
Emma scrunches her nose. She’s well-acquainted with the guilt face. It’s what got her to the library that afternoon. “Yeah,” she admits. “But you’re the only one here right now. So that puts you at the top of the list. Something about the Dewey Decimal system.”   
  
“Oh, that’s not even remotely clever. And I’m not sure they use the Dewey Decimal system anymore. But I’ll have to ask Belle later.”   
  
“Wait, what? Is that really her name?”   
  
“Are we having the same conversation? It doesn’t feel that way.”

“I don’t think so,” Emma agrees, eyes flitting back towards Henry when she hears an especially loud peal of laughter and getting him away from that goddamn puppet is going to take some kind of miracle. “Belle the librarian. That you’ll ask later. So...that makes Belle your wife?”  
  
“Wow, sheriff, you’re going to be fantastic at solving crimes.”

“Ok, there’s no need to be rude about it.”  
  
Ruby hums, but the noise sounds a bit like laughter and her eyes are bright when they meet Emma’s. “Yes, Belle is my wife and the librarian and presumably knows about the Dewey Decimal system.”   
  
“So how does Killian know her?”   
  
Emma’s not entirely prepared for the look she receives – slightly stunned and a little awed and it makes her more uncomfortable than anything else that’s happened in the last six hours. And then Ruby laughs.

Loudly.   
  
Uproariously.

For several days.

Or what feels like several days, Emma’s cheeks burning and eyes boring a hole into the ground as she tries to avoid the confused stares of several other moms, all of whom are also wearing incredibly cute flats.

“Oh my God,” Ruby mutters, wiping under her eyes and Emma is going to knock over the entire goddamn building. “Mary Margaret is going to have some kind of field day with this. Was that honestly flirting I interrupted before?”  
  
“No.”   
  
It’s far too quick an answer and it might be a bit of a lie, but Emma’s not entirely convinced she hasn’t just exploded into a small inferno and the library feels impossibly small. And she hadn’t seen Killian come in after she walked away before.

Not that she was looking.

That would have been insane.

“Sure, sure,” Ruby nods, smile tugging on her lips. “What did you talk about?”  
  
Emma shrugs. “Nothing, really. Stuff. The dinosaur song.”   
  
“The dinosaur song.”   
  
“David taught Henry some song about dinosaurs and Killian knew it and he said he knew your wife and he knew who I was and it was--” Emma cuts herself off, not sure how to finish that sentence because she’s not entirely sure she understands the town of Storybrooke quite yet and she’s still a little jaded about, like, the entire world. There shouldn’t have been nearly as much flirting as there absolutely was. “I’m going to get some air,” she announces, standing up abruptly and Ruby blinks in surprise. “Can you...can you just make sure Henry doesn’t rip any books apart?”   
  
She doesn’t wait for a response – which is...it’s not great, but Emma’s only kind of still breathing and this town is insane. She doesn’t sprint out of the library, but there is a briskness to her walk that leaves pins and needles shooting up her legs and she sighs as soon as the door closes behind her, slumping onto the first step with as little grace as humanly possible.

Emma squeezes her eyes closed, counting breaths and trying to stay positive because moving to Storybrooke was a good idea.

Is a good idea.

Present tense.

It’s calmer and quieter and the kind of place kids should be raised. It’s the kind of place with dinosaur puppets and story time and...incredibly attractive blue-eyed men who apparently volunteer at the library in the middle of the week.

Oh, God she was totally flirting.

Emma stays outside for five minutes, staring at the shadow her flats cast and Mary Margaret’s shoes are almost comfortable. She tries to convince herself that’s a sign, but she can’t take anything seriously if it has bows on it, and her left knee cracks when she stands back up.

It takes less than a full second to realize that Henry is no longer all that interested in story time.

Emma’s eyes scan the room, slightly wider because Ruby is no longer in their pre-assigned seats and Belle is standing behind a counter talking to some other woman with incredibly shiny brown hair and Henry is sitting on a couch a few feet away, legs crossed under him and voice loud as he corrects Killian.

Henry is sitting next to Killian.

“No, no, no, ‘Illian,” Henry says and it is clearly not the first time he’s explained this. “That’s its name!”  
  
Killian’s eyes flash up when he notices Emma staring at them – mouth hanging open and lungs, possibly, collapsing and a kid runs into her side before she can even begin to process what the hell is happening.

“So his name is Alberto?” Killian asks, gaze never leaving Emma as she takes a step forward. “That’s a silly name for a dinosaur, don’t you think?”  
  
“No!”   
  
“It says it right here, Albertosaurus. Alberto the saurus.”   
  
Henry laughs loudly and Emma can’t quite stop her own laugh either, but it might be closer to a giggle and her teeth dig into her lips when she clamps her mouth shut. Killian’s lips quirk, the book in his hands moving when he shifts, and Emma’s not entirely sure what to do because this may be the single most adorable thing she’s ever seen in her life.

Several lives.

The entire goddamn universe.

Henry groans, flailing limbs and a voice that’s far too loud for any appropriate library, but might be perfect for Storybrooke. And if Emma weren’t herself, she would also groan at her own thought process, but she’s pretty positive Killian is still smiling at her and Henry hasn’t smiled that much since they pulled the last box out of her bug.

“What do you think, Swan?” Killian asks. “Alberto the saurus? It’s a ridiculous name.”  
  
She grins, something in her stomach that might be butterflies or the physical embodiment of hope, but either way it’s warm and comfortable and she’s nodding before she considers the implications of any of it. Or what Ruby meant about Mary Margaret.

Mary Margaret is the last thing Emma wants to be thinking about right now.

“I think it’s kind of cool,” she says, taking another step forward and her shoes are close enough that they just barely brush against the front of Killian’s. “He sounds like the kind of dinosaur who’d wear a hat. And like...a tie.”  
  
“And eat some pasta,” Killian adds. “You think they had good marinara sauce in the...what period are we talking here?”

He glances expectantly at Henry, her son’s hands gripping at the sides of the book and the side of Killian’s jacket, using both to try and prop himself up. Emma’s about to say something, a reprimand or a reminder that  _we don’t use other people to stand up_ , but that lesson seems to have been as quickly forgotten as  _no shouting in the library_ and Killian doesn’t seem to mind.

“Cret…” Henry starts, grimacing when he can’t pronounce the word. “Cret-ac-ulous.”  
  
“Close enough,” Killian laughs.

Emma’s heart explodes. Or gets hit by an asteroid. She’s not sure what period that happened in.

“Alberto wasn’t really the best guy though,” Killian continues lightly and maybe story time just evolved into something else, Henry a rapt audience again. “According to this he was only a little smaller than the Tyrannosaurus, but just as intent on eating things.”  
  
“That’s a nice way to put it,” Emma mutters. She gets a smile for her joke, perched on the side of the couch. “So Alberto was some kind of dinosaur mobster is what you’re saying. Just taking out other guys for the fun of it.”   
  
“I think you're generalizing a little bit, love.”   
  
“About the dinosaurs?”   
  
She doesn’t correct him on the endearment and it’s a strange change of pace in an even shorter amount of time, but she can’t bring herself to be angry about Ruby failing to do her job either so maybe Emma’s turning over a new leaf.

Or evolving.

She’s on a roll.

Killian nods, wincing when Henry’s elbow lands in his ribs. “I think you’re taking advice from Alberto, lad. Although the book does say that he lived in Canada, so presumably he had some manners as well. Probably apologized after he ate his fellow dinosaurs.”  
  
“Look who’s making sweeping generalizations now,” Emma mutters and they’re both going to sprain something in their face from smiling at each other.

Henry tugs the book out of Killian’s hands, flipping to a different subject when Alberto isn’t quite as interesting anymore and the jokes keep going over his head. It’s a few moments of relative silence – there are still half a dozen kids trying to check out books and Emma’s breathing sounds a little ragged in her own ears – but then she’s talking and the words are falling out of her mouth quickly and she dimly wonders if Killian has _practiced_ that smirk thing.

That’d probably be weird.

“Sorry about all this,” she says quickly. “I was just...Ruby was supposed to make sure he didn’t tear the pages out of any books.”

“He didn’t,” Killian points out.

“Yeah, that’s true, but it’s also not accepting my apology and it’d be cool if you could do that.”  
  
“There’s not anything to apologize for, Swan. I learned all about Alberto and his clothing tendencies. That’s far more exciting than it usually is when I help here.”   
  
“Why do you do that?” Emma asks. “The library thing I mean. You said you knew Belle.”   
  
“Ah, so you’ve got a name now, huh?”   
  
Emma shrugs, the butterflies doing something else, possibly trying to fly out her mouth and that would probably make it difficult to flirt.

She’s definitely flirting.

This town is absurd.

“I moved here a couple years ago,” Killian says. “For the same reasons I think you did.”  
  
Emma lifts her eyebrows. “And what are those, exactly?”   
  
“It’s just an assumption, but something along the lines of recent challenges, a distinct amount of being alone, friends here and a little bit of guilt thrown in for good measure.”   
  
“Well, you know what happens when you assume.”   
  
He barks out a laugh, surprising Henry and Emma in equal measure, but that’s nothing compared to what her whole body does when Killian mumbles  _sorry, lad_ under his breath, resting a hand on Henry’s shoulder like it’s the most normal thing in the entire world.

“That’s true,” he admits. “But, like I said, that’s just what I think and what I’ve heard. It’s a gossip’y town.”  
  
“This is not your great, big backstory,” Emma points out.

“I’m not sure I agreed to a great, big backstory. Just the high points. At least not until the third date.”

Emma widens her eyes and it can’t be good for her blood pressure to be so consistently and continuously surprised, but flirting is kind of fun and Killian is kind of  _absurdly_ good looking and Henry’s still trying to show both of them pictures of a dinosaur he can’t pronounce.

And there’s something to be said for confidence.

“Third, huh?” Emma echoes, Killian’s smile a bit more tremulous and a little more hopeful. It sends a rush of something down her spine that might actually be power and the butterflies could probably take over all of Storybrooke at that point. "Does that mean I'll get to learn why you know some random dinosaur song then?"

“At least. But the high points are good for initial meeting. I knew Belle in a different lifetime, stayed in touch even when we both went our separate ways, but then I got hurt.” He shrugs his left shoulder, Emma’s eyes flitting to a prosthetic she hadn’t noticed before and she’s glad her heart was destroyed by the previously mentioned asteroid because she’s positive it would have fallen into her stomach otherwise. And that would have done damage to the butterflies. “So Belle suggested I move up here. There was a job and a chance to start over and after several weeks of arguments and heavy-handed suggestions that I’m sure Mary Margaret also used on you, I agreed and here we are. Learning about Alberto the saurus.”  
  
Emma’s breathing out of her mouth, jaw hanging open slightly as she tries to process all of this and she still has so many questions she’s certain she’ll burst with them. “And you help your friend during story time at the library?”   
  
“Sometimes. Not every week.”   
  
“But this week.”   
  
“This week,” he nods and Emma’s not really big on fate or prophecy because she lives in the real world, but Storybrooke appears to be something different entirely and Killian grins when Henry slams the book into his chest.

They stay on that couch for another two hours – Henry finding more books and they spend, at least, forty-five minutes trying to find the most ridiculously named dinosaurs they can. The winner, of course, is the Opisthocoelicaudia and Emma’s stomach aches from laughing as they all try to pronounce it.

“It was a valiant effort, Swan,” Killian laughs as she tries it one more time and the words gets twisted on her tongue. So she sticks it out instead, feeling particularly successful when his eyes bug slightly.

“You try it then.”  
  
“No, I think my dinosaur knowledge has been shamed enough for one day. And, I, uh...I’ve got to get going.”   
  
Emma’s not all that pleased with whatever her stomach does as soon as the words are out of his mouth, standing up with his hand in his hair and a nervous expression on his face that doesn’t make much sense because she didn’t know his name until a few hours earlier.

“Oh,” Emma says. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m sure we already took up most of your day anyway and--”  
  
“--That’s not what it is at all, Swan. I’ve just got to go to work.”   
  
She never did ask her questions about his job. “Right, right,” she mumbles and this is not the picture of cool, single-mom confidence she’s hoping to show while still attempting to flirt. It’s a goddamn disaster.

“But you’re going tomorrow?”

“What?”  
  
“It’s Storybrooke, love. There’s a festival for everything. The Spring...thing is an important tradition to the people of this ridiculous little town.”   
  
Emma blinks. “I think Mary Margaret mentioned something about that. So, uh, yeah, we’ll be there.”   
  
“Good.” Killian leans forward to squeeze her shoulder lightly and Emma dimly wonders if there’s some kind of lingering mark left behind because her skin feels like it’s on fire, but then he’s ruffling Henry’s hair again and saying goodbye to Belle and it feels like the Earth has tilted on its axis a little bit.

Emma doesn’t move off the couch for another hour, only half listening to Henry’s never-ending commentary on the late Jurassic period and she has to bite back a curse when she realize she doesn’t have a goddamn library card to check out any of these books.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Belle says brightly, waving off the apology Emma hasn’t actually gotten out yet. “They’re already all checked out and I’m pretty positive he organized them in alphabetical order.”

“What?”  
  
“Killian mentioned Henry had some interest. He’s pretty good at returning things on time too, so you don’t have to worry about any of that.”   
  
Emma nods dumbly, lips going dry because she keeps letting her mouth hang wide open and she was definitely wrong before – the Earth didn’t just shift, it fell directly off its axis, irreparably altered by a giant asteroid with incredibly blue eyes.

The next day pass in a blur of of boxes and dinosaur books and forgetting to return Mary Margaret’s flats, but then it’s Friday night and Emma’s not exactly nervous, might be more excited than anything, and absolutely ignoring David’s questioning stare as they walk down Main Street.

Storybrooke shuts down Main Street for its spring festival.

Naturally.

“What are you looking for?” David asks, not for the first time. Emma shakes her head quickly, hand wrapped up in Henry’s and Mary Margaret appears to be having some kind of psychic episode. Her eyes are narrowed and there’s a hint of a smile on her face and she’s wearing a different set of flats with different bows on them.

And flowers.

They’re incredibly adorable.

Henry’s singing the dinosaur song again.

“No one,” Emma answers, but it’s the worst thing she could have said because that’s  _not_ what David asked and she nearly bites her tongue in half when she slams her mouth closed.

David laughs. Mary Margaret actually gasps.

“Oh my God,” Emma sighs. She doesn’t remember stopping, but they’re in the middle of a not-so-small crowd and everyone keeps shouting greetings at them and calling her  _sheriff_ and he said he’d be there.

Or, well, he asked if she’d be there, which, really, it’s the same thing.

Right?

Right.

It was fine.

She hadn’t been thinking about it. For, like, the last twenty-four hours straight.

“Yuh huh,” David mutters, all judgement and laughter and Emma’s eyes are going to get stuck if she rolls them any harder. “You look like you could use a drink, Em.”  
  
That catches her by surprise – and it’s totally true. “They have alcohol in this town?”

“We live in the twenty-first century. There's one bar.”  
  
“And you want to take my kid into it?”   
  
“No,” David says seriously. “I want to take you that stall thing over there with the one liquor license in a fifteen-mile radius and then I want to hear who you’re looking for.”   
  
Emma rolls her eyes again, but she doesn’t object and Mary Margaret looks positively giddy.

And, really, that should have been enough of a warning.

It’s not though – because everyone seems to know her already and Emma’s never been great at being the center of attention and she’s not sure people will trust a sheriff who’s drinking in public before her first day on the job.

“Three of whatever you feel like making,” David says, slinging an arm around Emma’s shoulders when she doesn’t stop immediately. “And maybe a little stronger in one of ‘em. Thanks, Killian.”  
  
Her head jerks up so quickly she’s worried she’s done permanent damage to her neck, eyes bugging and jaw cracking as it falls open  _again_ and Killian freezes with a bottle of something held lightly in his right hand.

“Swan,” he breathes and Mary Margaret makes a sound that is not remotely human.

Emma waves. God, she actually  _waves_ and it’s ridiculous and absurd, but he’s pouring some kind of alcohol into the air and David is staring at both of them like they’re absolutely insane.

That would, almost, make sense.

“Hi,” Emma mutters, trying to quiet Henry, but he’s jumping and shouting his own  _hi, ‘Illian, thanks for the books_ and as far as potential second dates go, this honestly isn’t her worst.

“Hey, Henry,” he grins. There’s alcohol running over the edge of the counter, but he’s not pouring it anymore and that seems like a step in the right direction.

“You two know each other?” Mary Margaret asks and it all, rather suddenly, clicks.

 _Mary Margaret is going to have a field day with this_.

Emma groans. “M’s, seriously?”

“What?”  
  
“No, no, no, do not do that. Did you plan this?”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Emma,” Mary Margaret says calmly and it is the single most obvious lie in the history of the world and several different periods of dinosaur history.

“Oh my God, you’re not even trying. Is that why you told me about the library? It was all some kind of elaborate set up?”  
  
Mary Margaret blushes, lips pulled back behind her teeth and that’s as much of an answer as Emma needs. “I was cautiously optimistic,” Mary Margaret mutters. “I didn’t know your schedule, Killian.”   
  
“It sounds really weird when you say it like that,” Emma says, eyes darting towards Killian before she can stop herself and he’s got that vaguely amused smile on his face again. He’s pouring the alcohol into cups this time.

“Yeah, I mean maybe a little. I did think the library was a good idea though and Henry got books so, you know--”  
  
“--Killian got the books. We don’t have a library card.” Emma twists, some of her frustration forgotten when she meets his gaze, all blue and slightly hopeful and she already feels like she’s done three shots of whatever he was pouring. “Thank you for that, by the way.”   
  
“It was no problem, Swan,” Killian promises. “I was happy to do it.”

And, just like that, any sense of lingering annoyance is gone – the asteroid metaphor is definitely getting overplayed in her head, but it keeps making sense and Emma can’t quite think straight when she rests her hand on top of Killian’s.

He tenses, jaw shifting and shoulders moving and maybe they’ve just found their own center of gravity now. Maybe the dinosaurs would have survived longer that way.

She’s clearly lost her mind.

“So this is the job?” Emma asks. “I feel like that’s a fair question for whatever we’re calling this.”  
  
“Second date,” Killian mutters softly, but Mary Margaret definitely hears because she makes  _that_ noise again and David mumbles something about _getting out of your hair_ that Emma will have to thank him for at some point.

“I mean there is alcohol involved.”  
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And,” Emma repeats. “You going to answer the question?”   
  
Killian nods, pushing a cup towards her and grabbing another to fill with soda for Henry. He puts five cherries in it. “There’s a reason I’m able to organize shelves during the middle of the afternoon,” he says. “It helps when I work at night.”   
  
“With the only liquor license in a fifteen-mile radius.”

“That’s catchy, Swan. I should put that on the sign.”

“I didn’t realize there was a bar in Storybrooke.”  
  
“There wasn’t until I got here.”   
  
She laughs, still charmed by  _all of it_ – and all of it might just be him and how easily he smiles at her and her kid and she loses track of how long they stand there until there’s a line forming behind her and slightly disgruntled Storybrooke townsfolk and Mary Margaret offers to watch Henry for a few minutes.

Emma has a strong suspicion it’s an apology.

She accepts it.

That, however, only ends with Emma moving behind the counter, pouring drinks and showing off skills she doesn’t really have, a smile on her face that seems to be plastered there. There’s not a lot of room and Killian, clearly, has a system, but they find a bit of a rhythm and it’s a miracle it doesn’t happen earlier.

Emma twist and Killian turns and, suddenly, they’re pressed against each other with bottles in hand and eyes wide and she swallows before she presses up on her toes and kisses him with the force of several different asteroids and a few other natural disasters.

He makes a noise against her – a mix of a sigh and something that sounds like a growl and it seems to move through every single inch of Emma until she’s certain she’d be content to only hear that ever again. She tilts her head instead, trying to touch more of him, but she’s also trying not to drop a bottle of scotch.

It’s a difficult balancing act that’s mostly just lips and a  _tongue thing_ that she’ll probably think about at least four times a week for the rest of her life.

They’re both breathing heavily when they pull apart, everything feeling like it’s shaking a bit, but that may just be Emma’s knees and someone – it’s definitely Ruby – whistles from the back of the line. There’s still a line.

There are people everywhere.

And Emma doesn't move. She doesn’t run. She doesn’t try to melt into the ground. She licks her lips, appreciating the way Killian’s eyes widen slightly and-- “Yeah, ok,” she mutters, putting the bottle down and kissing him again.

She starts work on a Monday and it’s exciting and decidedly un-exciting because Storybrooke is ridiculously boring and even more quiet and nothing happens for the first four days on the job.

But then it’s Thursday night and there’s a mumbling over the scanner and something about  _The Rabbit Hole_. Henry’s at David and Mary Margaret's – Emma promising she didn’t want  _special treatment_ when she was just starting out and the night shift was fine for a little while, but now she’s got to actually do something and it’s probably easier to walk.

Storybrooke is not very large.

She swings open the door to the only bar in a fifteen-mile radius to find Killian standing behind the counter with a towel over his shoulder and his arms crossed over his chest and he blinks three times when he realizes it’s her.

“Swan,” he says, like they didn’t make out in public a week before, strings of text messages and dinosaur facts exchanged for the last few days because Henry keeps requesting,  _demanding_ , to be read to whenever she’s home.

“Hey,” Emma mutters. “You called.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I did.”   
  
“And?”   
  
Killian blinks again, eyes tracing over her like he’s trying to commit her to memory. He nods towards the corner of the room – a lump in a booth that is, presumably, a human. “Won’t leave,” he explains. “Is quite a few drinks in and was getting...belligerent.”   
  
“Good word.”   
  
“It’s all that time at the library.”   
  
This is more flirting, blatant, obvious flirting and the lump in the booth sighs dramatically at it. He pushes up, swaying slightly when he gets to his feet and glaring at Killian. “You didn’t have to call the sheriff, Jones,” he grumbles. “I would have gone eventually.”   
  
“Yeah, there’s this thing known as last call and you’re about twenty minutes beyond it,” Killian counters.

“I was comfortable.”  
  
“You were loitering.”   
  
“Eh,” Emma shrugs, working a disbelieving smile out of Killian and that was kind of the point. The guy in front of them sounds like he’s gagging. She glances at him, moving another step forward, and tries to look intimidating. “Are you leaving now?” she asks. “Because you really should be leaving now.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” he mumbles and it takes a few moments, but he seems to hit his walking stride as he gets closer to the door. “Don’t need to watch all of this anyway.”

He’s gone as soon as the presumed insult is out of his mouth, door slamming back into the frame with a surprising amount of force and Emma realizes she’s standing alone in Killian’s bar. There’s still a towel on his shoulder.

“Thanks, Swan,” he says, making her jump slightly and his smile is unfair when she turns on the spot. “Saved the day.”

“He probably would have left eventually.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, but David has got this glare down that seems to intimidate Leroy just a bit more than anything I can do and I figured that would do the trick rather quickly.”   
  
“Oh, so you weren’t looking for me then?” Emma asks and she hopes the question is as teasing as she wants it to be. It’s not. She knows it’s not as soon as the words are out of her mouth, Killian’s expression shifting to something a bit more serious and he tosses the towel somewhere.

“A pleasant surprise,” he says softly.

It’s not much – it’s three words and however many letters Emma’s not willing to count – but it feels like a lot and Storybrooke is an absurd place with one bar and a local drunk and festivals for everything, but it’s also kind of surprising in a pleasant sort of way and they totally beat Mary Margaret's plan anyway.

And the next words out of her mouth aren’t entirely planned either, but Emma’s not sure she’s in control of any of that because she’s walking and sitting and drinking and it’s all so goddamn easy she doesn’t want to question it.

She wants to be continuously and consistently and pleasantly surprised.

“You know,” she says. “I think this counts as third date. If you want to get technical.”

Killian beams. Something, something,  _asteroid_. “I think you’re right, love,” he agrees and she doesn’t argue that endearment either. It sounds kind of nice. “I think that means we’ve got to share great, big dramatic histories, right?”   
  
“Those were the rules, yeah.”   
  
“Deal.”

She’s exhausted the next day – and a little hungover, but that’s neither here nor there because the bar stool was almost comfortable and the drinks were incredibly good and there was talking and laughing and a substantial amount of kissing.

And it just kind of...goes from there.

They unpack the boxes and steal more kisses in the corner of the room, Henry shouting about dinosaur facts and the dinosaur song and Emma learns the lyrics eventually – smiling when Killian has to repeat them a few times and his brother taught him the song when he was Henry's age on an ancient record he still, inexplicably, has – but none of them ever learn how to pronounce Opisthocoelicaudia.

They settle into a routine and a life and Emma gets more calls to The Rabbit Hole because Leroy really likes that one booth in the corner, but she gets pretty good at the glare thing too and it usually ends with an arm around her waist and lips just behind her ear and it’s not entirely professional, but it’s Storybrooke so it doesn’t count.

They return the library books late every single time –  _”You’ve sullied my record, completely, Swan. I’ll never be able to go back without some kind of shadow of shame following me around.” “Just use the phrase shadow of shame and I’m sure Belle will be so impressed she’ll forget about the fine you’re going to have to pay.”_ – and Emma never does get that library card because she doesn’t have to and they all go to the library together, an arm around her shoulder and Henry’s hand in hers and it stops being surprising eventually.

It, eventually, just becomes her life, the Earth settling back on its axis with a kind of perfection that seems custom-made for the way Storybrooke works. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks ago @katie-dub mentioned this story idea about Henry sitting with Killian at a library story time and my brain was like...THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I HAVE EVER HEARD. It took a little bit longer than I expected, but Katie is a gift and deserves some cute and some fluff and some fun dinosaur names. 
> 
> As always, come flail on Tumblr if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	15. When You Want to Escape, Say the Word, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her Royal Highness Princess Emma of Misthaven was exhausted. And bored. And frustrated. And mostly bored. 
> 
> She'd spent her life watching her parents save the kingdom, inspire others and, just generally, become the basis for every love story she'd ever believed. But, now, on her own trip to Arendelle, Emma hadn't done much of anything. 
> 
> So, she'd left. She was going to see the city and do what she wanted. At least for a day. She just didn't expect to run into an obstacle as soon as she left the castle – literally.

She didn’t see him at first.

That would, eventually, seem like some sort of sign, as if she weren’t entirely ready for him, but in the moment it only served to frustrate Emma and she refused to accept responsibility for the sound that came out of her mouth.

It felt a bit like a snarl, like it scratched its way out of her throat and the man in front of her looked a little stunned.

“In a bit of a rush, aren’t you, love?” he asked, a hint of a laugh clinging to the question and Emma’s eyes narrowed.

They were still standing in the doorway, her entire body buzzing with something that felt like a mix of adrenaline and anger and a bit of pain because the man in front of her was incredibly solid when she ran into him.

She ran into him.

Gods.

She was the worst escaped princess in the history of several different realms.

“Maybe you were just in my way,” Emma seethed, and the man’s eyebrows jumped into his hairline. It wasn’t very bright in the tavern they were only half standing in, but there was a bit of sunlight and Emma could just make out the blue of his eyes, amusement in his gaze and hair that was in desperate need of several pairs of shears.

He hummed, stepping to the side when several different and incredibly drunk citizens of Arendelle stumbled towards them.

Emma, however, wasn’t quite as quick – eyes widening despite her best efforts and she wished she could stop making noises before she decided she wanted to, a gasp falling out of her and her hood falling away from her and the man’s fingers were wrapped around her wrist suddenly, tugging her back towards his side.

He was still as solid as she remembered.

Gods.

Again.

This was an unmitigated disaster.

It didn’t seem possible, but the man’s eyes get even wider – mouth hanging open slightly and they were both breathing through their mouths like they'd run to the dockside tavern. His gaze flickered over Emma’s face, a muscle in his temple jumping and he still hadn’t moved his fingers.

She hadn’t told him to move his fingers.

She didn’t entirely mind his fingers.

She had clearly lost her mind.

Emma had never been drunk, but it sort of felt like she’d already spent most of her day going mug for mug with the men who nearly ran her over and she just wanted a moment to herself. Or, well, a few moments.

She’d been in Arendelle for nearly two weeks – two weeks of pomp and circumstance and expectations and corsets that, she was convinced, had already done irreparable damage to several of her internal organs.

And, really, she knew she was being more than a little selfish.

Her parents had trusted her for this...whatever it was they were calling it. Mission sounded far more political than what it was, more an envoy and a string of meetings and balls and bowing and curtseying and far more waltzing than she was entirely prepared for, because the Evil Queen had been defeated and true love conquered all and now Snow White and Prince Charming wanted the rest of the world to know they’d taken back their kingdom.

It was an honor to be the, literal, bearer of good news.

Emma wanted to see the world and, after years spent in fear of Regina and magic and life outside the castle walls, she was loathe to admit that it wasn’t quite everything she imagined it would be.

It was...a little boring.

And detrimental to her spleen.

She wished it was a mission.

But Emma wasn’t entirely versed in diplomatic _anything_ and while she wasn’t quite proficient at waltzing, she hadn’t stepped on anyone’s literal or metaphorical toes yet – until that very moment and the man whose fingers were still wrapped lightly around her wrist.

She didn’t think he realized his thumb was moving, brushing over her skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake and she’d only wanted a moment to herself.

Sans corset.

She wanted to see the world and Emma was going to be damned if she didn’t get a few unsupervised hours in the only kingdom she’d ever been too.

“Don’t you have something else to be doing than getting in people’s way?” Emma asked archly, and the man jerked his hand away from her as quickly as if he’d been burned. There was still a smile on his face, though, a hint of _something_ that might have been teasing and Emma couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

No one ever dared.

There’d never really been time – a battle to be fought and people to protect and a goddamn kingdom to provide for, a role and a life she’d settled into without much choice.

She didn’t entirely understand what this man’s eyebrows were doing.

They seemed to operate entirely separate from the rest of his face, shifting and jumping and arching and Emma was only a little distracted by whatever his mouth was doing at the same time, gaze still locked on hers, and she could feel the blush rising in her cheeks.

She didn’t apologize.

She wanted to – could feel the emotions shifting and twisting in the pit of her stomach, as if she were being appraised by this stranger and his questionably blue eyes – but she bit the words back, certain anything else she said would practically announce her to the rest of the tavern.

If there was one thing she’d learned in war, it was that stealth was key.  

“Apparently not,” the man answered, and the smile had become a smirk and he was definitely teasing her. “But, to be fair, you did run into me, darling, and if recent memory serves, I did just save you.”  
  
“Save me?”  
  
“Oh, aye, you were in incredible danger, didn’t you realize?”  
  
“Apparently not,” Emma echoed, breath catching at the sound of his laughter and she could feel people staring. They were still blocking half the doorway. “You need to move.”  
  
“Strangely enough, that’s what I was trying to do while leaving the premises.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but those same emotions in the pit of her stomach did something again and she could feel the smile on her face. The man’s eyebrows shifted again.

Gods.

“Oh,” she blinked. “Of course. I, um…”  
  
“Was trying to get inside? I gathered as much.”  
  
There was a noise behind her, quiet grumblings and curses she’d never heard before and Emma’s smile was gone as quickly as it arrived, replaced with a slightly stunned expression that wasn’t helping her attempts at stealth at all.

The man narrowed his eyes and she got that feeling again – as if he was taking stock or trying to read her mind and she jutted her chin out definitely, earning a soft smile for her efforts.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” he warned, tapping lightly on her bent elbow when she crossed her arms across her chest. “Is this the first tavern you’ve ever been inside?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” Emma repeated, doing her best to put as much certainty and confidence and several other words that would get her parents to give her an actual mission into her voice. She knew it didn’t work when the man’s teeth found his lower lip, like he was trying to stop himself from laughing at her and she wasn’t sure if she should have been insulted by that or not. “What...why would you say that?”  
  
He shrugged, shaking his hair away from his eyes and Emma swallowed so she didn’t do something absolutely absurd like sigh dramatically. It was far too stuffy in that tavern. “You don’t quite blend in my dear,” he said.

“Are you trying to run the gamut of unnecessary endearments or is that just a challenge you’ve presented to yourself?”  
  
His answering laugh was as good the second time as it was the first, echoing off the walls and, possibly, in between Emma’s ears and it was good she didn’t wear the corset when she snuck out because her arms were doing an admirable job of crushing her ribs anyway.

“That’s because I don’t know your name,” he pointed out. “Or why you were quite so aggressive in your attempts to get into this rather disgusting establishment.”  
  
“That’s quite an accusation to make.”   
  
“Which part?”   
  
“Either or, really,” Emma shrugged. “Why do you think it’s disgusting?”   
  
“You have eyes, don’t you?”  
  
She glared, rolling her eyes in response and this man’s smile was not part of any plan she’d come up with when she decided to leave the castle and several dress fittings behind for the afternoon. There wasn't much of a plan, to be honest, just some ivy on the wall under her window and Emma had always been a very good climber.

“But you were here,” she said. “Isn’t that a commentary on you?”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And, what?”  
  
Emma sighed as she scowled at him and maybe teasing went both ways, her foot moving of its own volition and the toe of her boot pressing lightly on his. He grinned. “You’re distracting me,” she said, regretting the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

“That so? Interesting.”  
  
“Gods, you are frustrating.”  
  
“Yes, I’ve heard that before,” he laughed. “I’m also still very interested in your name and what exactly it is I’m distracting you from. Plans to meet someone? In secret? In this aforementioned disgusting tavern? Really, darling, if you’re going to stage surreptitious meetings with someone, you should pick something a little less dingy.”  
  
Emma gaped, breath rushing out of her in a mix of disbelief and awe – certain no one in the history of...anything had ever dared to speak to her like that.

She didn’t entirely mind that either.

“You overstep, sir,” she muttered, taking a step back and she regretted that too. He was, after all, very good looking and, clearly, far too self assured for his own good, but there was something just on the edge him, something a little dimmer and darker and Emma was curious.

She wanted to know his name too.

“Not sir,” he corrected softly. “Just Killian.”  
  
Emma blinked. “What?”  
  
“Killian. As in a name. Mine, specifically. That’s usually how these sorts of introductions work.”  
  
“And you’ve had a lot of introductions with women in dingy taverns, then?”  
  
Gods, she might have been keeping track of how often she got him to laugh. Three was better than one and two combined, the way his eyes lightened a little and his shoulders shook slightly and Emma let her arms fall back to her side, as comfortable as she’d been since she stepped off the ship two weeks before.

“Not as such,” Killian said. “And now you’re supposed to respond in kind. Have you never had a conversation before? Is this the first time you’ve ever been outside?”  
  
“Oh my Gods, you are rude.”  
  
“Yes. And you’re almost pitifully bad at trying to change the subject.”  
  
“I see no reason why I should answer any of your questions,” Emma hissed, but she was still being impossibly charmed by all of this and that didn’t seem entirely fair. Her eyes had almost entirely adjusted to the light inside the tavern and she was determined to do bit of inventory of her own.

There was quite a lot of leather in front of her – nearly every man in a ten-foot radius sporting some variation of the same coat with their hands on sword hilts and mugs in front of them and Killian was no different. She noticed the charms around his neck, the cut of his shirt far too low for any respectable sort of man to wear, and she bit her tongue to stop herself from making any noise when her eyes landed on his left hand.

Or, rather, the absence of his left hand.

There was a hook instead, the metal somehow shining in front of her and, eventually, she’d think that was a sign too, but in the moment Emma was simply trying to keep her breathing level and coming up decidedly short.

And her mind raced to one word and one feeling and Killian wasn’t smirking when she looked up at him.

Pirate.

“You’re a…” she mumbled, trailing off when it felt as if the tongue she’d been doing damage to had grown in her mouth.

He shook his head ruefully, hair falling back across his brow as his fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against his sword belt. “I think I’m going to call you, Swan” he announced, and Emma wasn’t entirely prepared for the abrupt shift in the conversation.

She, apparently, wasn’t prepared for much of anything that day.

“Excuse me?”

“Swan,” Killian repeated. “It...fits, don’t you think? They’re interesting creatures. Rather aggressive when they’re challenged. And I'm fairly certain you’re never going to tell me your real name, so now we can avoid all those pesky lies.”  
  
“How do you know I won’t tell you my real name?”  
  
“Don’t insult me like that, not after you only just ran me over. There’s a reason you’re here, Swan and it’s--”  
  
“--Not because I’m meeting some secret lover,” she interrupted and laugh number four was as genuine a sound as anything she’d ever heard.

She might have hated him.

She was fascinated by him.

“Yes, I realize that,” Killian nodded. “But there is a reason you’re here. You’re just telling me yet.”  
  
“Presumptuous of you. You’re a stranger. In a tavern.”  
  
He hummed, stepping towards her until Emma didn’t have any choice except to back further into the corner they might as well have been living in at that point. His fingers were warm when they brushed over the curve of her shoulder, touch feeling like several different kinds of sparks, even through her light cloak and she blinked, no less than, six times.

“All of your points were true, Swan,” he continued, seemingly untroubled by any of Emma’s arguments. “But you’re not doing a very good job of hiding yourself. And there aren’t very many good reasons for a lass like yourself to be sneaking into a tavern like this before we’ve even reached midday.”  
  
Emma clicked her tongue, frustration rolling through her in waves, but Killian’s fingers were still moving, tracing over her arm and grazing towards her wrist again and maybe sneaking out of the castle was the worst idea she’d ever had.

She couldn't even argue with herself in her head.

“Should I point out, again, that you are here?” Emma asked, stabbing a finger into his chest and his entire expression shifted, surprise clouding his gaze immediately. She smiled.

“No need. As I mentioned, I was leaving. And now, Swan, so are you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“If there’s not some lover waiting for you a few feet away then I see no reason why you would want to stay in this place by yourself. Not even the best rum in Arendelle.”  
  
“What?”

“You’ll have to come up with another question if you want a different answer, love.”  
  
She huffed loudly, pressing her lips together tightly and did her best to glare at him, but Killian just shrugged and they were on some kind of moving conversational _something_ , shifting back and forth and challenging each other with every sentence.

And Emma was nothing if not a little stubborn and decidedly competitive. She really would have been very good on any sort of diplomatic mission – trade embargos wouldn’t know what hit them.

“You think you can bring me somewhere that has better rum than this place?” Emma asked, and Killian was nodding before she finished the question.

“I do. Why did you pick this place anyway?”  
  
“Why did you?”  
  
“No, no, no, Swan, one question at a time.”  
  
She bit her lip, trying to come up with one of those pesky lies that might ring true – Arendelle guards and Misthaven soldiers turning down the alley at the same time she had and Emma hadn’t thought much before pushing through the first door she’d stumbled upon, quite literally.

“I, um…” she stuttered. “Had heard...of it. Once. A long time ago.”  
  
Killian almost looked disappointed. “You truly are a horrible, liar, love. Alright, here are my terms. No more lies. No more attempts at lies. You can’t…”   
  
Emma waited for the rest of it, the subtle insults and jabs that still managed to sound a bit like compliments, but he didn’t say anything else and the fear that had been lingering in the back of her mind when she realized he _must_ be a pirate, practically roared to life.

She knew she shouldn’t have trusted him.

She wanted to anyway.

“Alright,” she said, appreciating his wide-eyed stare when she agreed to whatever it was they were doing. A mission, perhaps. “No lies. No attempts at lies. But I’m free to not answer questions if I don’t want to. And you do the same. We are...cautious allies for the time being and I will...pay you back for running into you.”  
  
His smirk looked a bit more lecherous than it had since she’d slammed into him, but Emma held her ground and Killian kept tapping his fingers on his sword. She only briefly considered stabbing him with it.

She felt like that was a victory.

“Well,” he said slowly, licking his lips and Emma didn’t try to mask her sigh. “I was already on my way out and that is a rather appealing offer. You’ve never been to Arendelle before, have you?”  
  
Emma considered her answer, debating her choices and the possible lies and the truth nearly tumbled out of her. “No,” she said. “I haven’t.”  
  
“Aye, I figured as much. Well, seems a waste to not see such a lovely city, don’t you agree, Swan?”  
  
“What is it you’re suggesting, exactly?”  
  
“I honestly don’t know,” Killian admitted, shrugging and he didn’t look quite as menacing, even with the metal at the end of his arm. He, almost, looked young and a bit excited and Emma might have been leaning towards him out of instinct.

Her palm was flat on his chest.

“Alright,” Emma said, agreeing to a question and a plan and she had to blink when they stepped back into the sunlight, leaving the dingy tavern in their wake.

When she was young, Emma used to beg her father for stories – tales of places near and far, of knights and princesses and true love, of choppy seas and calm bays and great, big ships with white sails and armies that would defend the crown no matter what threat they faced.

She didn’t remember all of them anymore, real life far less poetic than anything he’d been able to come up when she believed every word out of his mouth, but in that moment, stepping into the sunlight with Killian, Emma’s mind drifted back to those stories. She’d felt safe then, despite everything going on around her family, and now she couldn’t shake that feeling of déjà vu, the certainty that this was a story she was missing and lesson she, simply, hadn’t understood yet.

All of those stories always seemed to have a very strong moral compass.

“You’re thinking very loudly, Swan,” Killian muttered, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye and Emma hadn’t realized where they were going.

To be fair, she wouldn’t have known no matter what direction they walked in, had only seen a few hallways in the castle and that one, very large ballroom, but a quick look around made it almost painfully obvious where they were – a market.

A bustling market, full of people and soldiers and faces who might recognize hers.

Emma cursed under her breath.

And in addition to laughs, she might have been counting how often she could take Killian by surprise. It was a look she enjoyed far more than she should have, but that seemed like a bit of a trend and she’d lost complete control of the day before it had even really begun.

“Where did a lady learn those kinds of words?” Killian asked, but it was difficult to understand the question when he was so busy laughing.

“Who said I was a lady?” Emma argued. “You thought I was staging some coy affair not even an hour ago.”  
  
“Oh, no, no, I never really thought that. No self respecting gentleman would allow his lady-love to arrive alone in a tavern such as that one.”  
  
“You certainly have a lot of thoughts about that tavern. And of being a gentleman.”  
  
“Are you suggesting I’m not?”  
  
“You tell me.”  
  
Killian smiled, the movement inching across his face slowly and they’d stopped walking. “Darling,” he said slowly, leaning forward until there was any space between them and Emma tried not to blink. Her eyes watered instead. “I’m always a gentleman.”

“And I’m not a lady,” Emma hissed. At least not today. Killian twisted his lips, staring at her like he was waiting for her to admit to the lie, but it wasn’t really that – she, technically, wasn’t a lady, was the crown princess of Misthaven, and it felt a bit like splitting hairs, but she was fairly positive she could smell freshly baked bread in the air and Emma hadn’t eaten yet.

“Still thinking very loudly, Swan.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, huffing slightly. “Where are we? Exactly?”  
  
“Was that not obvious?”  
  
“Well….yes,” Emma sighed. “But it felt impolite not to ask.”  
  
“Mmhm, not a lady, of course. Well, love, we are standing stock-still in the middle of the recently resurgent Arendelle marketplace where, it is my plan, to provide you with some kind of breakfast, possibly barter for a few wears and then, eventually, purchase a good amount of quality rum.”

Emma laughed in spite of herself, the sound bubbling out of her with something that felt like joy and glee and several other emotions she’d resolutely pushed to the back of her consciousness for the last few years of fighting against Regina.

And Killian looked positively victorious, as if he’d been counting on her reaction or, at least, working towards it.

It didn’t feel quite like teasing anymore – it felt a bit like...something else.

“You want to feed me?” Emma asked skeptically, but he was already nodding again.

“No lies, Swan. If the rumors are true, then there is a man here who can do small miracles with his oven.”  
  
“Magic?”  
  
Emma’s eyes widened when the word fell out of her, the question she didn’t want to ask landing almost audibly in the minimal amount of space between her and Killian. He tilted his head. And, well, that was fair.

No one knew.

No one could know.

Only Regina had known, the mumblings before Emma had been born, the rumors of prophecy and _true love_ and it had all been because of her. Regina was coming for her, for the magic that she could possess, the product of true love and the should-have-been heroine of those stories her father always told her.

Regina wanted Emma’s power, but the only problem with that was Emma didn’t have any power.

More than twenty years on this Earth and Emma had never made anything so much as disappear, never inspired any armies or done anything except stay behind the front lines while her parents risked everything.

For the kingdom.

For her.

Killian ducked into her eyeline when her gaze moved towards the incredibly blue sky above them and she’d probably have to buy the rum because he didn’t ask a single question. He smiled at her, soft and honest and bordering dangerously close to earnest, a hint of _something_ that couldn’t possibly ever be classified as pirate.

He didn’t make any sense.

“Not quite,” he said, answering the question Emma had nearly forgotten she’d asked. “Although I did hear he does something sinful with his sweet rolls.”

“You hear quite a lot of rumors, don’t you?”  
  
Killian shrugged, wrapping his hand around her forearm and directing Emma towards the closest food cart. “I’ve been spending a good amount of time by the water. Sailors are gossipy by nature.”  
  
“Is that so?”  
  
“Absolutely. All that time spent on the sea? They need to do something, don’t they? So they come up with stories. Can’t seem to stop themselves from doing it even when they’re on land.”

“And you?” Emma prompted. “You’re a...a gossipy sailor?”  
  
“I’m a good listener,” he amended and it felt like an important distinction. “And I’ve been here for a little while.”  
  
“How long?”  
  
Killian’s fingers tightened slightly, as if the question had caught him entirely off guard and Emma had a strong suspicion he wanted to reach for his sword. She made a noise, a soft apology without saying the words as she stepped in front of him and she had no idea why her hands kept landing on his chest.

Maybe that was the magic she was supposed to have.

Gods, that would have been disappointing.

“A few months,” Killian said softly, right arm falling to his side as he kept his left trained behind his back. “Six...six months.”  
  
“Six months,” Emma echoed, and her mind raced through dates and times and-- “You’re not from Arendelle, are you?”  
  
“What gave me away?”

“That’s not an answer.”  
  
Killian chuckled under his breath, but it lacked any sense of humor. He shook his head. “No, I’m not.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And I’ve been here for six months, staying by the docks, listening to stories and tales and Queen Elsa’s recent acquisition of the throne and, apparently, the world is saved now.”  
  
“That reeks of bitterness,” Emma pointed out, but she couldn't object with him and she might have been even more bitter.

Killian shrugged. “Hence the sweet rolls, Swan.”  
  
He didn’t give her a moment to ask anything else, flashing her a smile that failed to reach his eyes and wrapping his fingers around hers tightly, turning back towards a man who was shouting several accolades for his own baked goods.

“He should be yelling more things,” Emma said, a few minutes and two sweet rolls later. “I’ve never had anything like this.”  
  
“Yes, well, I’m not sure anyone has ever eaten them that quickly either,” Killian muttered, and he didn’t flinch when she smacked familiarly at his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Swan, but you’ve got quite a sweet tooth don’t you?”

She shrugged, reaching forward to grab another roll. “It’s just not something I’m used to.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
His voice cracked slightly on the question, genuine surprise coloring the few letters and Emma wasn’t quite sure what to do with the warning bells that seemed to be sounding in the back of her mind. She shook her head.

“No, um…” she started. “My parents...it’s....things have been difficult. For some time and sweet rolls weren’t exactly a priority. Although if you’re interested in learning which berries will or won’t kill you, then I am a wealth of knowledge.”

“That’s very specific knowledge.”  
  
“When it comes to eating, it’s crucial knowledge,” Emma said, memories of nights spent in forests and tents and she wasn’t entirely prepared for Killian to be staring at her like he’d only just realized she was there. “What?” she asked. “If you stare at me any harder, you’re going to snap me in half.”  
  
He exhaled, closing his eyes lightly and running a hand through his hair. “Apologies, ma’am.”

“What?”  
  
It was if someone had snapped their fingers, everything changing and Emma briefly wondered if the whole morning had been some very lucid dream, staring up at a man who didn’t appear to know the definition of the word _ma’am_ , let alone call her that in the middle of a crowded marketplace. Killian’s entire face shifted, the blue in his eyes turning to steel and he rolled his shoulders when he licked his lips, pulling away from her.

Emma tried not to sigh.

He heard her anyway.

“Why did you come to Arendelle?” Emma asked, desperate to change the subject.

“It was there.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Why did you?”  
  
“Not much choice,” she said, and this was all getting dangerously close to the actual truth and they’d run out of sweet rolls. “My parents are...important and I’d been begging to see, well, anything for years. So they needed someone to come to Arendelle on business and--”  
  
“--And here you are,” Killian finished. “They trusted you like that?”  
  
“Is that a not so subtle suggestion that they shouldn’t have?”  
  
“No, no, I’m just not entirely sure where your day in the tavern factored into important business.”

“You’re harping on this tavern. There was no deeper meaning to it.”  
  
“No?” he challenged, eyebrows moving again, and Emma’s mouth went dry. “Everything you’re thinking,” Killian added, “clear as day on your face, Swan. Don’t ever play dice, you’ll be robbed blind.”

“That’s disappointing,” Emma grumbled, drawing another laugh out of him. “I’ve been here for a little while too and I haven’t...I just wanted to see something real.”  
  
“As opposed to something fake?”  
  
“Exactly.”

Killian eyed her for a moment and Emma had her fair share of experience with Regina’s magic – knew what it felt like when the rush of it pushed against her and wrapped around her, trying to get under her skin or into her mind, but nothing had ever felt entirely like this.

This felt as if someone had lit a fire in the very center of her, a heat that was working its way down her arms and out her fingertips. Her whole body felt like it was standing on the edge of a very steep precipice, where one good gust of wind would push her to safety or something decidedly less.

She didn’t entirely hate it.

“So let’s go see something real,” Killian said, offering his hand and Emma took it without question.

They stayed in the marketplace for a few hours, wandering aimlessly from cart to cart and brightly colored awnings, Emma’s fingers brushing over trinkets and fabrics and everything was such a stark difference from the life she’d grown accustomed to.

It was, well, a life.

No one noticed her. No one looked up or glanced at her, no lingering stares or promises that she was _the jewel of Misthaven_ , a compliment some duke had paid her on her first night in Arendelle, that still made Emma laugh.

There were people and arguments, shouting about prices and expenses and others clutching their purchases close to their chest, as if they’d only recently discovered a very specific type of treasure. It was loud and a little chaotic, but there was an order to it that still made sense, a quasi dance of _normal_ and Emma didn’t want to miss a single step.

Killian’s fingers stayed on her the whole time, wrapping around her wrist and tracing over the edge of her sleeve and the curve of her shoulder. He left goosebumps when his hand curled around the back of her neck, a presumptuous move Emma probably could have had him executed for, but she leaned into the touch and it was all so easy she still wasn’t convinced she wasn’t dreaming.

So, naturally, it had to end.

They turned a corner, going somewhere else without much of a plan and smiles on their faces, when Emma found herself face to face with an entire platoon of Arendelle soldiers – and one of them, quite clearly, recognized her.

The sound that fell out of her wasn’t so much as gasp as it was a vaguely disappointed groan, squeezing her eyes closed as the man in front of her drew his sword. Emma reached blindly behind her, fingers finding Killian’s left arm and the hook at the end of his wrist.

She held onto it, not sure what she was doing, only that she was doing something and that surge of power she’d felt in the marketplace rushed through her again, the fire turning into an inferno as the smell of salt reached her nose.

“Swan,” Killian said, but his voice was barely more than a whisper and there were waves crashing nearby. “Love, you can’t keep standing like that, you’re going to hurt your knees.”

Emma laughed, but it was shaky and cautious and the fire was still roaring under her skin. She stood up straighter, but didn’t let go of the hook, fingers gripping it almost painfully as she dug her nails into her palm and tried to remember all the reasons she wasn’t losing her mind.

She couldn’t come up with one.

Killian was talking, muttering words in her ear and the top of her hair and he didn’t look nearly as terrified as Emma felt, but he was cautious in a way he hadn’t been all day.

The fire went out.

“That’s never happened before,” he said, and it wasn’t the question she wished it was. Emma shook her head. “Interesting. So that question before about magic was…”  
  
“Generic curiosity,” Emma mumbled.   
  
“Ah, we promised not to lie, love.”  
  
She exhaled, sighing out the oxygen she probably could have used to maintain consciousness, but Killian’s thumb was rubbing circles into her shoulder and Emma was having a difficult time focusing on anything except that.

“Are you alright?” Emma asked, and Killian jerked back when he understood the question. “I just...that’s never happened before and I just want to make sure all your limbs are properly accounted for.”  
  
He threw his whole head back when he laughed. “I promise, Swan, everything is accounted for.”

“Gods.”  
  
He squeezed her shoulder lightly, a quiet reassurance she appreciated far more than she could say and Emma knew her smile was tremulous when she looked up, gaze a bit glossier than normal. “I’m fine, Swan,” Killian said. “Are you? That was quite a display of power.”  
  
“You could feel that?”

“Aye, couldn’t you?”  
  
“I was doing it. I think.”  
  
“You were, love. Teleportation Isn't exactly an easy trick to fake.”  
  
“Is that what happened?” Emma balked, but it was almost blatantly obvious that it had, the water next to them and the waves lapping at the shore and she glared at Killian’s vaguely patronizing smile. “Alright, so it was a silly question. I just...how did we end up here?”  
  
“It was your trick, Swan. What were you thinking about?”  
  
Emma shrugged, any truthful answer far more information than she was willing to give up, and she’d never let go of his hook. “I wanted...somewhere quiet and safe. Where no one would find us and I could...I don’t know.”  
  
She bit her tongue, stopping herself from saying anything more and everything felt like it had fallen off that cliff. And then promptly shattered on several particularly sharp rock formations.

“This is where I was trying to get us,” Killian said softly after a few moments. Emma had started crying at some point.

“Is that possible? For me to know that?”  
  
“I’ve no idea, but Arendelle’s a funny place. Magic in its bones, you know.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Killian clicked his tongue at the repeat question, but Emma held her ground and she wanted the whole story. “The queen,” he explained. “She has magic. That’s why the realm was cut off for so long, terrified to use and terrified to be used by others. Isn’t that...I thought everyone knew that.”

“No,” Emma shook her head. “They didn’t.”

And she wasn’t sure what hurt more – being kept in the dark again or only being partially lied to or spending her entire life with the belief that she couldn’t do much of anything to help anyone.

But that feeling only lasted a few moments, mind racing and heart racing and Killian didn’t look away from her.

“I teleported us to the ocean,” Emma said, a note of awe in her voice that nearly matched up perfectly with the smile on his face.

“Aye, you did.”  
  
“Why were you thinking of the ocean? And this specific part of it?”  
  
“Ah, it’s as you said, love. Quieter here, easier to think. I've...I like to come here sometimes, remember that there’s...a whole world out there.”

Emma hummed, turning on him and tugging lightly on the cuff of his jacket sleeve. “Do you often need reminding?”  
  
“At least once a week.”

He licked his lips again, hair nearly covering his eyes when he tilted his head and there wasn’t much space between them, but Killian found a few extra inches, stepping into it and resting his hand on Emma’s hip.

She wasn’t sure if she was breathing.

She had, however, stopped crying.

That felt important.

And he’d felt her magic

 _She had magic_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted one CS Fic Formal story already, so here is another. I'm here to fulfill Fic Formal requests for those who hadn't gotten their gifts yet and I have never once written Lieutenant Duckling so, please, be kind internet. This gift is for @fyeahcaptn and fingers crossed you enjoy it!!
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr, if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	16. When You Want to Escape, Say the Word, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her Royal Highness Princess Emma of Misthaven was exhausted. And bored. And frustrated. And mostly bored. 
> 
> She'd spent her life watching her parents save the kingdom, inspire others and, just generally, become the basis for every love story she'd ever believed. But, now, on her own trip to Arendelle, Emma hadn't done much of anything. 
> 
> So, she'd left. She was going to see the city and do what she wanted. At least for a day. She just didn't expect to run into an obstacle as soon as she left the castle – literally.

“You don’t…” Emma started, stumbling over the words and she winced when the question seemed to get stuck in her throat. “You don’t have to tell me, but how did you…”  
  
Her eyes flickered towards the hook she still had her fingers wrapped around, sunlight glinting off the metal that was starting to get warm under her touch. Killian winced, breathing through his nose, and Emma was almost ready for him to move.

He didn’t.

“It’s not exactly a tale of heroism, Swan,”

“Maybe that’s not what I’m looking for.”

And she absolutely was _not_ ready for him to stare at her like that – unblinking and unwavering, lips parted slightly as the quiet exhale rushed out of him, gazing at her like she was several different constellations and possibly the sun itself.

She tightened her hold on the hook.

“The ship I was on was attacked,” Killian said. “Suddenly. No chance to fight back. We tried, but it was a fool’s errand and, well, I landed in Arendelle six months ago after the rescue ship that found me, docked here. Nemo and his crew were coming to the coronation, found me floating on several pieces of wood in the middle of the sea and took pity on me. I was nearly dead, probably would have been a few days later if they hadn’t hauled me on board.

But Nemo can never turn his back on a stray and he’s nearly as stubborn as you are, love. Simply refused to let me die. Even when I wanted to. I’d...well I’d lost my hand already and it was a supposed miracle I hadn’t lost my entire arm. Nemo wanted me to stay with The Nautilus after the coronation, but I’d already taken enough charity to last a lifetime. So here I am.”

“I'm sorry,” Emma whispered, and it wasn’t nearly enough, wasn’t the sorrow she could feel in her core as clearly as if she’d lived through the battle as well.

Killian shook his head, lower lip jutted out slightly and that expression lingering on his face. There was more to the story, she knew it, but she swallowed back her questions, appreciating the bit of truth she’d gotten.

“That’s not your fault, love,” Killian said, a certainty in his voice that was equal parts jarring and comforting and just a little overwhelming. “I know it’s not.”

She smiled, lacing her fingers through his and it was far too forward for any self-respecting princess, but Emma had magic’ed them to the water and Killian’s eyes were distractingly blue.

“Do you want to sit down?” she asked.

He nodded.

Emma had no idea how long they stayed there – Killian’s jacket sprawled out over the grass and her legs crossed underneath her, matching smiles on their faces as they talked about everything and nothing in equal measure.

He had a brother – ”A stubborn ass, sometimes, but a good man” – and Emma was an only child – ”It got a little lonely sometimes, but I’d never tell my parents that” – and she admitted she missed the way spring turned to summer in Misthaven, the green of the trees and the blossoms on the flowers that grew everywhere and Killian admitted he missed the sway of a ship underneath him, still not entirely used to the stability of the ground under his feet.

It was an easy give and take, information exchanged for more information and quick glances and a growing knowledge that Emma might have been hoarding just a little.

He tugged on his hair when he was nervous or when he wasn’t entirely ready for a question, tongue darting out between his lips in a way that was far too distracting. And he noticed when she twisted her fingers, nerves inching up her spine when she nearly gave away too much, tugging her hands apart and keeping both of them held in his fist.

He was impossibly warm.

They sat there for hours, until the sun dipped behind clouds that had only just appeared in the sky and Emma’s stomach wasn’t particularly pleased with the lack of food it had been provided all day.

“I believe I was promised good rum, wasn’t I?” Emma asked. “Seems a less seedy tavern than the one from before would also have at least some hard tack.”  
  
“I’m almost insulted, Swan. You really believe I’d bring you anywhere that served something as repulsive as hard tack?”  
  
“You are a sailor, hard tack is part of your life.”

“Ah, well, that may be the one part I don’t miss,” Killian grinned, standing up and holding his arm out expectantly for Emma. “C’mon, love, we can’t survive on sweet rolls alone, no matter how much you might have enjoyed them.”  
  
“Impertinent,” Emma mumbled, but her fingers laced through his again and she closed her eyes before he could start walking, a flash of white light and hint of smoke as their feet landed in an abandoned alley on the other side off the city.

Killian stumbled forward, a mix of a groan and laughter on his lips, and his eyes were bright when he glanced at Emma over his shoulder. “Give a man some warning, Swan,” he said.

She grinned. “I wasn’t entirely sure it would work. Didn’t want to disappoint.”  
  
“I don’t think you could if you tried.”

And there it was against – the conviction and the certainty and the warning bells that were practically banging their way _out_ of Emma’s head at that point, desperate to ask the questions she could almost feel sitting on the tip of her tongue.

She didn’t.

And Killin ran his hand through his hair.

“I’m starved,” he announced, nodding in the direction of a dim light at the other end of the street and a crowd that was drifting close to raucous. “Just…” He took a step forward, tugging the hood of Emma’s cloak up and she didn’t think she imagined the way his fingers lingered on the curve of her jaw, something that felt like _want_ flashing across his features. “Keep this up, alright?”

Emma nodded dumbly, following the noise and the lights and this tavern didn’t smell nearly as bad as the last one, but it was a close second.

“And you thought my choice was debatable,” Emma mumbled, working a quiet scoff out of him as he directed them a small, open table.

“It wasn’t debatable because it was awful. This at least looks like it’s been cleaned in the last century.”  
  
“You’re awfully judgmental for a pirate.”  
  
Killian froze, his grip on the chair making his knuckles go white, and Emma wondered what she’d said wrong. “Right,” he said, clicking his teeth on the word. “That’s...alright. I...you need some food before you get to the rum, love. I don’t want to have to carry you out of here.”

“Of course,” Emma muttered, confusion lingering in the back of her brain and if anymore emotions landed in the pit of her stomach, she was convinced she was going to get tugged through the ground.

There wasn’t any hard tack – the table filled, instead, with smoked meats and some kind of cheese that was, apparently, the height of Arendelle’s culinary talents. Emma wasn’t so sure, still certain those sweet rolls were the best thing she’d ever eaten, but the food was good and the company was only slightly awkward, which was only slightly disappointing.

All things considered.

He was a pirate.

He had a hook for a hand.

Nothing about this day made sense.

She didn’t get drunk, but the rum did, finally make an appearance, burning the back of Emma’s mouth and leaving her a little dizzy and a little happy and the muscles in her jaw started to ache when the men at the other end of the tavern started shouting about dice and cheating and more rum. They were probably pirates too.

“Alright there, Swan?” Killian asked knowingly, leaning close enough that she swore she could feel his hand on her knee. It wasn’t, was hanging frustratingly at his side, and maybe she was a bit worse at holding her rum than she originally thought.

“Fine.”  
  
“Aye, you look it.”  
  
“That’s awfully rude, sailor. I don’t remember offending you. I’m not sure why you feel the need to do the same to me.”  
  
He grinned, the tip of his tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth. “Were all those insults this morning not enough, love?” he asked, ignoring her pointed eye roll. “And, for argument's sake, I’m not insulting you. I’m merely pointing out the very obvious.”  
  
“Still rude.”  
  
“That’s not my intention.”

Emma huffed, but it came out a bit more like a growl and everything seemed to shift slightly when she stood up. Killian’s hand wrapped around her arm, steadying her before she could collapse in a less-than-dignified heap on an absolutely disgusting floor, and Emma only resented it a little bit.

“I’m fine,” she bit out, but that knowing expression didn’t leave his face and anger seemed to mix strangely with alcohol. “Ask your question.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Ask your question,” Emma repeated, enunciating every word. “I know you want to.”

Killian eyed her for moment, fingers tapping against her arm and the tavern felt impossibly small, as if the moment were more focused or something equally impossible and just as sentimental. Emma refused to even consider the possibility that it was her magic.

It might have been her magic.

Gods.

“Why didn’t you leave?” he asked, and his voice didn’t shake, but it was softer than it had been all day, as if he were worried about the answer he’d get. “This whole day. It surely wasn’t part of your plan.”  
  
“To be fair, I didn’t really have a plan.”  
  
“Aye, that was the rest of my question.”  
  
Emma tried to smile, but that was difficult when her lip was twisted between her teeth. “You’re rather curious, aren’t you?”  
  
“Perceptive.”  
  
“Ah, of course,” she laughed, taking a deep breath and the explanation wasn’t even close to the lie it probably should have been. “I...there are expectations. For me. Here. And after here. And for the rest of everything. It’s good, it is, because it has to be and we’ve, well, my parents, have waited a very long time for this, but it’s not--”  
  
“--Not you?” Kiklian ventured, and Emma nodded.

“It’s incredibly selfish, I know. To want so much when I’ve already been given even more, but I suppose I thought, for a day, it might be alright. And you were right before.”  
  
“About what, love?”  
  
“You’re not all that bad at listening.”  
  
Killian practically beamed at her, the rush of emotion that shot down Emma’s spine not entirely unexpected, but still a bit unfamiliar, and she wasn’t sure whose eyes widened more when she felt the flush of magic in her fingers.

“You know, I’ve never played dice before,” Emma said conspiratorially. The men on the other side of the tavern were still shouting and she only had a few pieces of Misthaven silver in her pocket, but she didn’t want to leave yet and it wasn’t all that late.

She would still be able to get back into the castle.

She’d convinced herself almost entirely.

“You’re going to get us run out of here, Swan,” Killian accused, but it was difficult to feel threatened when his left arm shifted slightly and she could feel the curve of that goddamn hook on her hip.

“Or I might be able to win.”  
  
Emma did not, in fact, win. She was, as expected, absolutely awful at dice and even worse at hiding her reactions to the dice and she’d lost track of the number of times Killian had laughed.

And of time.

Completely.

They stumbled out of the tavern, pockets far lighter than they’d been upon arrival, to find stars dotting the sky, quiet streets and a castle that, quite suddenly, looked far more imposing than it had that morning.

“Shit,” Emma hissed, drawing a quiet sound out of Killian. She closed her eyes, trying to find that flicker of magic, and groaning when she came up decidedly empty. She had no idea what she was doing. “Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered, stamping her foot once for good measure.

“Swan.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Cursing, wasn’t that obvious?”  
  
“Yes, but I assumed there was a bit more to it than that. If this is about the gold…”  
  
“It’s not about the gold,” Emma interrupted. “I just didn’t realize what time it was, that’s all.”

“And that requires cursing like several ships worth of sailors?”  
  
“Don’t tell me I’ve somehow offended your delicate sensibilities?”  
  
Killian shook his head, a hint of a smirk tugging at the ends of his mouth. “Of course not, love, but I’d rather you didn’t have to resort to such.”  
  
Emma hummed noncommittally, trying to come up with a plan or more magic and neither one seemed particularly interested in working at the moment. She glanced back up at the tavern, lights in the windows and maybe she’d be able to get back into the castle before first light.

She just needed somewhere to sleep.

“How much do you think that would cost?” she asked, Killian’s eyes widening in confusion. “A room. Here. Tonight.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“I can’t go back where I was and I can’t stay in this alley, so I would appreciate some kind of guess and how many games of dice I’d need to win to get my silver back.”  
  
“Far too many.”  
  
“That was a very quick answer,” Emma sighed. “I could...I could pay you back?”  
  
“Why was that a question?”  
  
“Because it needed to be.”  
  
“No,” Killian said, and she was running out of air to sigh out dramatically. He pressed his lips together, taking a measured step towards her and catching her mid-foot stomp. “Swan,” he muttered. “You can’t stay here, love. You know that.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what?” she asked, half shouting the question in his face. He didn’t flinch. “I can’t...apparently teleportation happens on a whim and only whenever...because I can’t…” Emma cut herself off, biting down on her tongue until she tasted blood and she didn’t entirely understand Killian the first time he spoke. “What?”  
  
“I said that I do have rooms,” he mumbled. “Or, rather, room, singular. But if you’re intent on not going back to wherever you need to be then, well, at least there’s an option where you’re...safe.”  
  
He shrugged at the final word, as if it was an extra bit he hadn’t expected to add on, and Emma was going to go deaf from the warning bells in her head.

It wasn’t danger though. She wished she knew what it was.

“Alright,” she whispered, agreeing before she could convince herself she shouldn’t.

The walk wasn’t long, a few streets and cobblestones under foot and it was another tavern with more men who looked like pirates and a slightly rickety staircase in the corner. Killian glanced at her when he pushed the door open, teeth worrying his lower lip and the room wasn’t even half the size of Emma’s at home.

It looked lived in, blankets folded neatly at the foot of the bed and a book on the table, a half-burned candle just a few inches away. And one bed.

_One bed._

“Oh,” Emma breathed.

“I know it’s not much,” Killian started, a hand in his hair and his arm back behind his back. “But it’s--”  
  
“--No, no, that’s not what I meant. I just…”  
  
She widened her eyes, hoping he had, at some point, picked up the ability to read her mind. He grimaced when he realized. “The floor is fine for me, Swan,” Killian promised, and, eventually, Emma would blame several different impossibilities for the words that came out of her next, something about the lingering effects of magic and how goddamn blue his eyes were.

The truth of the matter, however, was that she, simply, wanted and it was selfish and wrong and she absolutely did not care.

Because she hadn’t left and neither had he and it had been a very strange day.

“Or,” she muttered. “You could not do that.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The floor can’t be comfortable and I can’t imagine it’s very clean.”  
  
“Have you ever been on a ship, love?” Killian asked. “They’re not exactly pristine. It’s one night.”  
  
“And your room. I just...it’s a fairly large bed.”  
  
It wasn’t. It was a decidedly small bed, a fact they were both almost painfully aware of nearly twenty minutes later, as far apart as they could be without falling off the edge.

Emma’s knee still almost brushed Killian’s.

“Swan, this is absurd,” Killian chastised, not for the first time, and she couldn't shake her head when she was lying down, but she made a valiant effort all the same.

“It’s not. This is...you get to sleep in your own bed, Killian. End of story.”

He narrowed his eyes, as if he were waiting for the rest of the argument, but Emma didn’t say anything else, just silently begged her heart to beat at a normal rate when she flipped onto her side, back facing him.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but her eyes snapped open when sunlight peeked through the thin curtains and Emma’s breath caught at the weight around her middle.

They must have drifted together at some point in the night, Emma pulled flush against his chest with an arm around her waist and her own fingers holding Killian’s like she was, at some point, concerned he’d disappear from his own room.

And it wasn’t nearly as strange as it should have been.

It was, oddly, almost comforting – like they fit together or something, her hair strewn across a pillow and his quiet breathing in her ear and for half a moment Emma considered going back to sleep, but then she remembered where she was and who she was and everything felt decidedly impossible and even more disappointing.

“Damn,” she mumbled.

“Still thinking too loud, love,” Killian said, and she didn’t have to turn around to hear the smile in his voice.

“I was talking.”  
  
“Aye, well, that too.”  
  
“I have to go.”  
  
He didn’t say anything, but she heard his quiet hum of agreement and it sounded as despondent as she felt. His arm might have tightened.

Emma sighed, closing her eyes and trying to push the moment into the darkest, deepest part of her memories, something good and normal and _hers_ , and her legs felt like they were made of stone when her feet landed on the floor.

“You need to get back before you’re missed, love,” Killian said, eyes flitting towards the door as he sat up. “We’ve already...I’m sure people are looking for you.”  
  
“I've no doubt.”  
  
She didn’t move.

She wasn’t sure she could.

And, really, it all seemed to happen rather quickly – one moment she was standing there, doing her best impersonation of a statue and the next Killian was in front of her, hook on her waist and hand on her cheek and Emma’s fingers found the front of his shirt, pulling him forward and he kissed as well as she imagined he would.

She’d imagined that more often in the last few hours than she’d ever admit.

He tugged her closer, Emma pressed on her toes to reach him, and she might have gasped when his hand moved into her hair, fingers carding through strands and making sure she didn’t pull away. She wasn’t particularly inclined to do so, but it was nice to know he didn’t want her to all the same.

The whole thing was...much more than nice.

They rocked against each other, several different ocean puns flitting through Emma’s mind, mouths moving like they’d known each other for several lifetime, a practiced rhythm that didn’t make any sense at all.

She didn’t let go of his shirt, using the fabric as leverage, and Emma smiled when Killian practically growled against her lips, a strangled, _needy_ sound that send a flash of something straight through her.

Magic.

It was magic.

They needed to breathe eventually, shoulders moving and eyes wide, and Emma wasn’t sure when the world seemed to flip upside, but it might have been when Killian’s tongue had brushed over her lip and his fingers were still tangled in her hair.

“Emma, I…” he started, eyes, somehow going wider when he realized what he’d said and she didn’t even have a chance to respond before the door slammed open.

She stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over her feet, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. She couldn’t; not when there were Arendelle soldiers and Misthaven soldiers and Killian staring at her like she was everything he absolutely could never have.

“Emma,” a voice called, marching into the room with an authority that would have been impressive if she weren’t trying not to cry. Ruby glanced around the room as soon as she crossed the threshold, lips quirking down in not-so-silent judgement, and Emma squeezed her eyes closed.

No magic. Again.

Gods.

“Where have you been?” Ruby continued sharply. “I nearly sent a bird to your mother, but then we heard a rumor that you’d been spotted here and I didn’t really want to worry her and…” Emma’s head snapped up when her chaperone’s voice trailed off, and Ruby’s eyes went wide, landing on-- “Lieutenant Jones,” she said, a note of surprise in her voice and Emma was actually impressed her knees didn’t buckle underneath her.

“No, not anymore,” Killian growled.

Emma shook her head, trying to wake up from the dream this absolutely had to be. No such luck. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded, ignoring the stunned expressions on the faces of the Arendelle soldiers. The Misthaven soldiers nearly smiled.

She turned on Killian, and she could see the muscles in his throat move when he swallowed.

“Emma,” he started, but her name sounded strangled in the air between them. “Swan, this isn’t..”  
  
“Did you know?” she asked. “The whole time? You knew who I was?”  
  
Killian nodded.

She stomped her foot. And, really, she wished she had come up with something better to do, a slightly more mature and possibly more regal reaction, but the Earth had flipped again and Emma had lost control of her emotions entirely.

Killian took a step back.

“Emma,” Ruby said softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her towards the still-open doorway. “We have to go. They’re expecting you at the castle. Elsa’s been terrified something happened.”

“Of course,” Emma nodded, and everything felt _less_ somehow, as if the feeling had been yanked out of the moment and twisted and turned and she didn’t look back when she walked away.

The rest of the week passed in a blur – Emma confiding in Elsa about her magic and the real reason she left that day and there weren’t any more balls, the Arendelle queen deeming them  _unnecessary_ when they had more important things to discuss and trade agreements to be bartered and the Misthaven contingent left the realm with a treaty that benefited both sides.

And Emma was, almost, happy when she left.

She’d never gone back to any of those taverns, or the quiet spot by the water, determined to forget those few hours and the very specific blue in Killian’s eyes or how easy it had been to conjure anything remotely magical when she’d touched him.

It didn’t work.

Of course.

But she refused to admit it, standing, instead, on the railing of the ship’s deck with the wind blowing around her and slightly slumped shoulders, Ruby’s furtive glances only passably annoying. Everything settled back into place almost easily, life in court and conversations with her parents, quiet admissions about her magic and what it meant for the kingdom until Emma was something resembling confident.

She moved on. She became a fixture in the kingdom and with the people and Emma never brought up the naval officer who’d been sent to watch her because, well, no one else brought it up either.

She knew it hadn’t meant anything to him. She didn’t want to harp. She didn’t need to harp.

She had missions to execute.

“Emma,” Ruby called, weeks after the trip to Arendelle, twisting around the door of the library with a look that almost begged suspicion on her face. “There’s a guest in the courtroom.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what?”  
  
“And what exactly do you want me to do about that?” Emma asked, not bothering to put her book down or move her feet off the chair they were propped on.

Ruby sighed. “Go and meet him, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously. You’re not going to tell me anything else? Anything about him or where he’s from?”  
  
“He’s from here.”  
  
“Ruby.”  
  
“I’m serious, Emma. This is...you’re going to want to do this.”  
  
Emma narrowed her eyes, suspicion creeping up her spine, but Ruby’s expression didn’t change as she nodded meaningfully towards the hallway. “Fine,” Emma huffed. “If there’s an attempted murder in the courtroom though, I’m going to come back and haunt you.”  
  
“You’re fully capable of protecting yourself,” Ruby reasoned. “And I’m hardly threatened by ghost-you. Go. He’s already been here for quite some time.”

She didn’t quite run to the courtroom, but she didn’t walk either – something bordering close to brisk that left Emma just a bit out of breath when the soldiers that were always stationed in front of the heavy, wooden doors of the courtroom swung them open in front of her.

There was a shadow in the corner of the room, pacing out a small semicircle a few feet away from her father’s throne. His footsteps echoed off the walls, the quiet tap of his fingers on the hilt of his sword sinking into Emma’s mind and her soul and both of those things were absolutely absurd, but she wasn’t entirely sure she was still breathing and he was in uniform.

Killian spun when her heard her shoes, eyes wide and bluer than she remembered and that was even more absurd, but Emma felt a little drunk again – and she hadn’t had a drop of rum in months.

“Swan,” he breathed, taking half a step forward before he appeared to reconsider it, and Emma had frozen solid.

Her lungs felt like they were on fire. Or possibly melting. Or shrinking. Too many things.

All at once.

“No, no, no, no,” Emma mumbled, shaking her head quickly, and she could already feel the telltale signs of magic in the air around her. “Gods, I’m going to strangle Ruby.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing, I just..why are you here?”  
  
“That’s a rather long story, love.”  
  
“Don’t call me that.”  
  
She hadn’t actually slapped him, but it felt that way – the skin of her hand buzzing and the look on Killian’s face making Emma feel as if several things had shattered. “The truth,” Emma continued. “That was our agreement, right? No matter what?”  
  
“I didn’t lie to you, Emma. Not once.”  
  
“You didn’t exactly tell me the truth either. How much did they pay you? Have you been on the water this whole time?”  
  
“What?” Killian asked, the confusion obvious in his voice. “I don’t...what are you asking me?”  
  
“I’m assuming my parents rewarded you well for keeping track of me all day. You know what I can’t figure out, though?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re asking me, Swan, so, no, I don’t know what you can’t figure out.”  
  
“Impertinence is not an attractive quality, Lieutenant Jones.”  
  
“Actually, it’s Captain, now,” Killian corrected softly, hand reaching up to tug on the hair that was far shorter than Emma remembered it. She blinked. “I told you it was a long story.”  
  
“Explain,” Emma demanded, and it might have been the most _royal_ thing she’d ever done. Her feet stayed firmly planted on the ground.

Killian smiled, finally, taking that step towards her. It still wasn’t enough. “I didn’t lie to you,” he repeated. “Not once.”  
  
“You were a pirate! I thought you were a pirate!”

He barked out a laugh, a flash of something in his eyes as his hand tugged lightly at his hair. “Not quite. Although, I did consider it.”  
  
“How do you consider being a pirate?”  
  
“You spend quite a lot of time in the port of a prominent realm, drinking a questionable amount of rum and trying to drown every disappointing thing that’s ever happened to you in that rum. I probably would have ended up that way, though. Piracy. It was getting difficult to simply stare at the water for much longer.”  
  
Emma shrugged in disbelief, and she could tell he was trying not to laugh at her again. She appreciated that. She probably would have appreciated less space in between them a bit more, but that was a point she’d get to eventually. “That’s why you kept going there,” she said slowly. “To the shore where I…”  
  
“Teleported us.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“It’s all I’d known for a very long time, Swan,” Killian muttered. “But then I ran into this lass who seemed to throw everything on its head.”  
  
“No, you don’t get to be charming, right now,” Emma seethed, and she might actually slap him if he kept smiling at her like that. There were several jokes about the sun to be made. “That is..the truth, Killian!”  
  
“It is, Swan. Your Lady was right. I was a Lieutenant, in your Navy as a matter of fact, but then we were--”  
  
“Attacked,” she gasped. “You were attacked. Six months before that day?”  
  
Killian nodded. “Very quick, very bloody, not much chance of survival, but that was rather normal for the Evil Queen wasn’t it?”  
Emma mumbled something that might have been words, head spinning and magic racing through her veins and Killian’s fingers were warm when they wrapped around her wrist. “You’ve got to breathe, love,” he said softly. “There’s quite a bit more story.”  
  
“Get on with it then.”  
  
He chuckled, humming in the back of his throat and bending towards her – and for half a vaguely insane moment Emma thought he was going to brush his lips over the crown of her head. He didn’t. She wasn’t disappointed.

That was a lie.

“We were attacked,” Killian continued. “By one of the Evil Queen’s ships. That’s, uh...that’s how I lost my brother.”  
  
Emma hadn’t been breathing, despite instructions to, so she wasn’t entirely sure where she found the air to sigh dramatically, but it happened anyway, her head crashing against Killian’s shoulder in the process. His hook handed on her hip.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled into his uniform.

“It’s not your fault, love. I, well, I thought it was for quite some time. Was convinced it was your fault and your parent’s fault, a losing battle against magic that would only end in more death and more blood and I didn’t quite see the point to any of it. That’s how I ended up in that tavern, forgetting several misplaced dreams in questionably bad mead.”  
  
“So what changed?”  
  
“You,” Killian said, as if it were obvious. “I walked out of that tavern and you ran me over and I knew who you were as soon as your hood fell down. I’d spent years fighting for your cause, your highness. You’re rather difficult to forget.”  
  
“That’s still charming,” Emma accused, tugging lightly on the fabric underneath her.

“Aye, well, that might actually be your fault, Swan.”  
  
“Gods, you are an awful storyteller.”  
  
“Stop interrupting then,” he grinned, laughing when Emma rolled her eyes. “I had every intention of bringing you back, you know. You’re the crown princess of Misthaven, there had to be people looking for you and probably that reward you mentioned, but--”  
  
“--Wait, wait,” Emma said quickly, practically growling when Killian glared at the interruption. “No, I don’t care. Make some joke about _royal_ and _commanding_ later. You really weren’t there because my parents sent you?”

And of the many reactions she expected, the myriad of things he could have done as soon as the question was out of her mouth, the last thing Emma expected Killian to do was laugh.

Loudly.

“It would have been incredibly impressive timing for me to be walking out of that tavern at the same time you were walking in, don’t you think, Swan?” Killian asked, voice still shaking from his laughter. “It’s an impressive story, with some actual magic involved, but I’m not some kind of soothsayer.”  
  
“No,” Emma hissed. “You’re the most frustrating man in all the realms.”  
  
“Aye, something like that.”

“My parents didn’t send you?” He shook his head. “No one from Misthaven sent you?” Another head shake, with an added smirk because apparently the world enjoyed teasing Emma.

“I had deserted your Navy, Swan,” Killian reasoned. “I highly doubt your parents would have given me a second look if Lady Lucas hadn’t found you. And she did threaten to have me hung by neck several times when I arrived here.”  
  
“I still don’t understand.”  
  
“Shall I repeat the quip about the interruptions?”

“Killian!”  
  
His smile widened – everything shifting and settling and Emma’s heart, finally, felt like it had settled back into a normal rhythm. She was breathing, almost, easily.

“I knew who you were,” he said softly. “And I thought about giving you up, demanding the eventual reward and walking away again, but I...couldn’t.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Far too many reasons, love, but most of them, as I mentioned, boil down to you. You were...exactly the opposite I thought you’d be. You were angry and insulting and so goddamn stubborn, but you were so curious too and you didn’t leave either. I...enjoyed spending time with you. Much more than I expected to.”  
  
“That still sounds a bit like an insult.”  
  
“It’s not, Emma,” Killian promised, and Emma wished she could stop crying during emotionally-charged moments. “It was a little greedy and decidedly selfish, but I would have stayed with you for as long as you asked. If you had asked.”

“How are you here?”

Killian’s eyebrows did something ridiculous, jumping and twisting and Emma was only slightly disappointed there hadn’t been more kissing during this reunion. “Ah, well, the Lady Lucas is quite determined and so is her majesty. Or majesties. Plural.”  
  
“Plural?”  
  
“Aye, Elsa was incredibly accommodating. A ship and a crew and, according to Lady Lucas, very prompt responses to her letters.”  
  
Emma could feel her eyes widen, knew she was breathing out of her mouth and none of it was particularly dignified, but Killian was looking far too satisfied and that smirk was absurd. “Ruby was...sending letters to the Queen of Arendelle?”  
  
“And your mother.”  
  
“What?” Emma shouted, snapping her jaw shut when Killian eyed her meaningfully.

“Lady Lucas knew me. She knew my brother and knew about our ship and the attack and, you saw her, Swan, she recognized me in the room. And she must have had suspicions about that day and what had happened and your mother was worried. So, well, they concocted a bit of a plan, enlisted Elsa and found me. Drunk and disorderly in another tavern a month after you left.”

“A different tavern?”  
  
“That’s not the point of the story, love.” Emma scoffed, and he tapped his thumb lightly on the side of her dress. “They found me, and I was a little concerned that I was bound for several different dungeons, but Elsa told me of the plan and there was a ship and a voyage and it was the first time I’d been on the water since Nemo found me.”  
  
“To come here?” she breathed, disbelief in the question. Killian nodded.

“Aye.”

“And the promotion?”  
  
“Ah, that was part of the plan too, apparently. Your mother mentioned you’d been taking on a larger role in the kingdom, practicing magic and there may be a few voyages in the future.”  
  
“Presumptuous.”  
  
“Maybe a little.”  
  
Emma nodded, taking a step back and trying to process and none of it really made sense, but all of it made sense and Killian didn’t blink when he looked at her.

He was waiting for her.

He came back for her.

“My magic showed up when I met you,” Emma said, and it sounded a bit like the accusation it might have been. “That...that seems important.”

Killian nodded slowly, and, perhaps, just a little cautiously – as if he were as nervous as Emma was. “The crux of the story, in fact.”

And everything felt like it froze for a moment, giving them a chance to breathe and consider and it took even less time for Emma to move back into his space, arms around his neck and lips on his and she still had to press up on her toes to reach him.

He sounded like he mumbled something, a possible _thank Gods_ , but the words got caught against her mouth and Emma fit impossibly well against his chest. Killian wrapped his arms around her waist, something a bit more desperate than the first time they’d done this, but the rhythm was still the same – give and taken and confidence and neither one of them pulled away when Emma’s magic flared to life.

They pulled apart only to press back together, hoarding air and documenting sounds and that second one might have just been Emma, but _he came back_ and she’d absolutely been harping.

Killian moved his mouth to her jaw, peppering the skin with kisses and laughing softly when he noticed the goosebumps he’d created again. “It wasn’t a lie, Emma,” he said softly, but the words seemed to burn their way into her soul and that wasn’t nearly as unappealing an idea as it should have been. “None of it.”  
  
“I know it wasn’t.”  
  
“Good.”

He leaned back, staring at her with several lifetime’s worth of emotion and every story Emma had ever heard paled in comparison to the one she was living.

She was, clearly, a sentimental fool – and she’d never seen him coming, either time.

So, really, the question that fell out of her made perfect sense.

“Would you...would you stay?” Emma asked, eyes darting up and something that felt like hope lingering at the base of her spine. “Here? With...with me?”  
  
And Killian’s answering smile rivaled a variety of different celestial bodies.

He kissed her before he answered, all lips and tongue and teeth, and her feet were half an inch off the ground by the time he pulled away, holding her as close to him as he could.

“Always, Swan,” he said, pressing the words into her hair. “Always.”

They left Misthaven a month later, a course charted to another brand-new realm with sails furled and a crew on deck and no one was entirely surprised when their majesties Snow White and Prince Charming announced that their daughter, Emma, had been officially betrothed to Captain Killian Jones.


	17. The Confusing Properties of Time Travel on Love and Romance

“Mom!”

Emma glances up, nearly knocking her mug over in the process and her own mom just barely pulls the thing away from her flailing limbs before it ends up on her and her kid while her _other_ kid is shouting for her from Granny’s doorway. There are too many familial relationships in that sentence. And Henry looks a little out of breath.

“Mom,” he repeats, stepping into the jam-packed diner. He nods at the more than several friendly faces, a smile here and there as he weaves through the tables and chairs and it isn’t hot yet, but Emma can feel the humidity seeping through the air even after the door slams closed behind Henry.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.”  
  
Emma widens her eyes, not entirely prepared for the way his voice picks up like he’s thirteen again and naming several different operations. She glances at Killian, only to be met with an equally incredulous expression and David is very clearly trying not to laugh.

He’s also trying to keep Neal from immediately climbing up Henry’s side as soon as he spots him, but that’s a losing battle, so it’s not really even worth counting.

“Ask the lad your questions, Swan,” Killian mumbles, barely audible when he takes a sip of the coffee in his mug. He isn’t threatening to knock his mug over with uncontrolled limbs. He’s also not holding a squirming baby.

Emma scowls. “That’s really stupid.”

“You are looking a little curious, sweetheart,” Snow says reasonably, and Killian makes a face that’s louder than any of the words he just said.

“My point exactly,” he nods. “Look, even your father agrees with me.”

“No, no, no,” Emma argues. “He doesn’t count at all. He’s way too busy laughing to be involved in this conversation.”  
  
“And you let every single thought that flits through your mind show up on your face.”   
  
“You really want to stick with the word flit in this situation?”   
  
“Should I not?”   
  
Emma shrugs, well aware that her father’s laughter has, mostly, stopped now that she’s a bit more preoccupied flirting with her husband. Granny keeps sighing dramatically behind the counter, but that may have to do with the Arendelle aristocracy that has been incredibly vocal regarding their distaste of her recipe for home fries.

“Mom,” Henry yells again. He skids to a stop in front of the corner booth that should just have their names emblazoned over the top if it at this point, hauling Neal over his shoulder immediately and hardly blinking when a wave of laughter flies out of the kid’s mouth. Hope does not appreciate any of it.

“Come here, little love,” Killian says, reaching across the table to pull her out of Emma’s arms and she doesn’t object. She’s kept her hair short since the freezing incident, mostly because it’s easier now and partially because it’s so goddamn inexplicably hot that summer, but her daughter seems to have inherited her tendency to flail and the last thing Emma needs on the one day off she’s got that week is to end up with some kind of baby-induced injury.

Or facing the wrath of Granny when she and Hope inevitably knock over several different plates and possibly a few mugs.

Killian mumbles a few quiet words against the tiny wisps of Hope’s hair – already a little blonde and that regularly does something peculiar to Emma’s pulse and possibly her heartstrings, but she’s not sure those are real things so she doesn’t ever mention that part out loud.

“Mom,” Henry mutters, dragging the word out into several thousand syllables. She’s lost complete control of her eyebrows.

The whole table exchanges a look – confusion and a bit of worry and Emma wonders if they can time travel without that giant, green beacon of light thing. Plus, they’ve done that already so it feels kind of wrong to rehash previous curses.

And she’s pretty certain Zelena is somewhere planning a wedding.

It shouldn’t surprise her that David is the first to actually voice his questions. There’s probably something about royalty or leading involved. Emma doesn’t care about either of those things when she can feel the nerves land in the pit of her stomach as heavy as Granny’s pancake batter before it’s cooked.

The Arendelle aristocracy probably has several pointed opinions about that as well.

She should ask Elsa about that.

She’s pretty certain Elsa is also somewhere planning a wedding. Or at least a proposal.

“Swan,” Killian mutters, and Emma blinks, jerking her head back and realizing she’s missed several important points in the conversation.

She winces, squeezing one eye shut and gritting her teeth and Killian has to duck his head into Hope’s shoulder so no one can hear him laugh. The whole thing is moot when his shoulders actually start to shake, but then Henry huffs loudly and crosses his arms indignantly and maybe Emma was onto something with the time travel thing.

“Where’s the fire, kid?” Emma asks, and the joke isn’t much of a joke because she can actually see the beads of sweat on Henry’s temple. He swipes his tongue over his lips, a move that’s far too _Killian_ to be entirely acceptable.

And Killian hasn’t lifted his head yet.

Henry arches an eyebrow. Time, as a whole, is absolutely absurd and apparently out to ruin Emma’s Sunday morning and one day off that week.

“Did you miss me just telling Grandpa all of that?” Henry asks.

Emma feels the blush rise in her cheeks, nose scrunching slightly as she tries to prepare herself for the lie she’s absolutely, positively going to tell, but Snow clicks her tongue in reproach before she can even get the words out. That’s really stupid too.

“I mean,” Emma shrugs. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”  
  
“You want to backtrack for a second? And maybe acknowledge my joke?”   
  
Henry scoffs, but his smile looks genuine and it’s only then that Emma realizes what a jarring difference it makes from the expression he had when he walked into the diner. People keep throwing furtive glances their direction.

Even the Vikings at the front table look worried.

Particularly Gunnar, who, as it turns out is incredibly nice and incredibly good at fixing cars, including Emma’s when her transmission died a few months ago near the town line. She doesn’t really hate the Vikings anymore.

“We don’t have time for jokes, Emma,” David said seriously, and Henry scoffed again, complete with an eye roll towards the ceiling.

“No?”  
  
“I mean, it’s really not that serious,” Henry wavered. David shook his head.

“That is not what you just said.”  
  
“I didn’t even get that far into the story.”   
  
“The word emergency was used.”   
  
“Emergency,” Emma echoes, the fear in the pit of her stomach expanding until it’s taken up residence in the back of her throat as well and is threatening to do damage to her heartstrings, real or otherwise. “What kind of emergency?”

She’s, like, seventy-six percent positive Gunnar shifts in his seat. Killian absolutely does.

Henry’s whole body sags with the force of his sigh, dejected and frustrated and several other adjectives that are nearly as bad as the verb flit. “Ok, emergency is maybe an overreaction,” he admits. “But mostly Mom said you guys were here and she would come back with her own report when she finished research--”  
  
“--I’m sorry, research?”

“Those were her words, not mine.”  
  
“What kind of emergency warrants research?”   
  
“Can we stop using that word?”   
  
“You used that word first,” David points out, and Snow’s tongue is going to get sprained if she keeps clicking it like that. “This is your own doing. Walked right off the plank or something.”   
  
“That’s doesn’t even make sense.”   
  
David hums, glancing pointedly at Killian, who shakes his head in response. “Why would walk the plan intentionally?”

“You’re no help at all,” David sighs, slumping further in his chair and maybe that’s where Emma got her limb control from. “What did Regina say? And how does she have time for any of this? Doesn’t she have to meet with herself?”

“That’s not for another two days,” Killian answers. The table blinks. Collectively. And the tips of his ears go red. Emma’s fairly certain she doesn’t imagine the way he holds Hope a little tighter, still not entirely used to _this_ particular position of authority and propriety and he’d probably be a bit more comfortable if they started talking about the pros and cons of planks again.

“She mentioned it earlier this week,” Killian explains. “I’d just spoken to those Lost Boys who...should we be calling them that anymore?”  
  
“What?” Emma asks.

“That’s actually a very good point,” Mary Margaret agrees, twisting her fork in her hand and the eggs on her plate are probably cold by now. “We should discuss that at the next fireside chat.”  
  
“Are we still doing that?”

She shrugs. “I don’t see why not. It’s a good idea, don’t you think?”  
  
“I think today is my day off and the Lost Boys staying in that…” Emma trails off, sighing with all the drama of someone whose life involvs concern over the proper name for the Lost Boys. “God, that name really is horrible, isn’t it?”

“They’re not all that Lost anymore,” Killian reasons.

They weren’t. There had been some discussion about bringing Neverland into the all-realm, but there weren't many actual pros in the discussion and Emma couldn't remember a moment when Killian had been more _official_ than that one – never quite shouting, never really raising his voice, a quiet certainty that she was sure had inspired and terrified more than its fair share of pirates and naval officers alike and Regina had nodded and agreed and Neverland didn’t arrive in Storybrooke with everyone else.

But its people did.

He’d been quick to argue for that as well. It was a wonder Emma’s heartstrings were even remotely in tact at this point.

So the Lost Boys left Neverland and Tiger Lily left Neverland and _that_ shouldn't have been a surprise, but Emma was only human and she wasn’t entirely prepared to watch Tinker Bell wrap Tiger Lily in a hug that lasted several full minutes as soon as they both landed in Storybrooke. And, together, they found a house on the far side of town that was, conveniently, big enough to hold all the Lost Boys and all the Lost Boys were equally stunned by the wonders of running water.

Emma suspected there was still some magic involved.

“Wayward?” Snow suggests. Emma makes a contradictory noise in the back of her throat. “That sounds worse doesn’t it?”  
  
“And kind of...ancient.”   
  
“Well, they’re not exactly young. Right?”   
  
David stares meaningfully at Killian, a wry smile on his face and Emma can not sigh enough. Henry looks a few seconds away from stomping his foot. “You’re a jester, your highness,” Killian says lightly, and David’s smile falls off his face immediately.

“C’mon, that was funny. What did the Wayward Boys actually do?”  
  
Emma groans. Loudly. “We are not calling them that! And...I can’t remember what they actually did? Was it bad? God, I should know that right?”   
  
“You were preoccupied with something one of those Munchkins did,” Killian mutters. “There was a lollipop incident.”

“No way,” Henry balks, grabbing a chair from the table behind him and ignoring Granny’s immediate objections. “There’s an actual Lollipop Guild?”  
  
“That’s not what they call it,” Emma says, shaking their head.

“Please. What do they call it?”  
  
She has to take a deep breath before she answers, pulling oxygen in through her nose and staring at the table because she doesn’t know what she’s going to do when she’s actually forced to say these words out loud. “The Lollipop Organization of Sugar Enthusiasts and Experts.”

Henry makes a noise that can not, in any situation, be classified as human – a screech and a shout and the chair squeaks over the floor when he jerks back. David reaches out before he can crash onto the floor, body shaking with the force of his laughter and Emma digs her teeth into her lip, biting down until she can taste blood because the whole thing is absurd.

She’s kind of forgotten why Henry came into Granny’s to begin with.

“You’re kidding me?” Henry asks, laughter still clinging to his voice and when Emma finally wills herself to look back up, there are tears in his eyes. She shakes her head. “Does Mom know that?”  
  
“I think Zelena told her. That’s who I went to to double check that I wasn’t being...punk’ed or something.”   
  
“Punk’ed?”   
  
Emma groans again, disappointment slinking its way down her spine. She’s never felt older. Or less cool. Or less like the sheriff of a fairy tale colony. She’s not sure that’s the right word, actually. Province? God, they really needed to come up with more official names.

“Do you really not get that reference?” Emma asks sharply. Henry doesn’t move. She twists, staring at her royal, fairy tale parents and pirate husband and magical baby and all of them look progressively more confused. “Damn,” she sighs. “None of you?”  
  
“That doesn’t even sound like a word, Swan,” Killian says.

“It’s not really. It’s, like, I don’t know. An early 2000s state of being.”  
  
“One you’re familiar with?”   
  
“No, no, I’m not a celebrity--”   
  
“--Of course you are,” David interrupts, an enthusiastic Snow nodding next to Emma. She’s going to throw her coffee mug on the ground on purpose.

“Ok, not like that. You know what, can we make some kind of royal decree right now not to ever mention Punk’ed or Ashton Kutcher again because that’d be absolutely fantastic.”  
  
“You’re speaking in tongues, love,” Killian accuses, but there’s a note of amusement in his voice he gets whenever Emma references something he doesn’t entirely understand and he’d listened to several hours of Wizard of Oz based ravings after she’d finished talking to Zelena.

“Maybe you’re the jester in this scenario.”  
  
He smirks at her. Which combined with the _painfully_ cute baby who has not squirmed _once_ since she landed in his arms is just, honestly, unfair.

“Henry,” Snow says lightly, reaching forward to rest her hand on his wrist and he looks like a teenager again. Emma’s getting conversational whiplash. “Didn’t you have some kind of quest you wanted to discuss? Before we come to some decision on the Wayward Boys?”  
  
“Stop calling them that,” Emma shouts, and she hears Gunnar yell _hear hear_ from the other end of the diner.

Henry blanches slightly, an expression that Emma’s fairly positive she made, like, ten minutes earlier and her eyes dart towards Killian again. He doesn’t blink. He watches Henry like several metaphorical hawks and possibly a few eagles, a stare he perfected when Henry actually _was_ a teenager and trying to figure out a way around curfew and far too many parental figures in one town. He never managed to sneak out of the house.

“Henry,” Killian says slowly. He adjusts Hope in his arms, letting her cling to his side, tiny fingers toying with the edge of his collared shirt. “You can’t keep staring at the ceiling, my boy.”

“See, I think that’s actually very untrue,” Henry argues. “I think I can stare at this ceiling until you actually finish your story about Mom and the whatever boys and then Mom can explain why that one Viking in the corner just like...saluted her before he walked out of here.”  
  
“He fixed her car. And I believe it’s a royal thing for them. He’s pledging fidelity.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?” Emma asks sharply, and Killian shrugs as if that’s totally normal. David hardly blinks. She’s clearly gone insane.

Maybe she is being Punk’ed.

That seems implausible.

“Do Vikings believe in that?” Snow asks, genuine interest in the question. “Fidelity, I mean? Aren’t they rather--”  
  
“--Savage,” David finishes.

Killian doesn’t look impressed. “Haven’t you read anything Henry’s documented?” David suddenly finds the ceiling very interesting as well. “Vikings are incredibly loyal. To a fault, in some cases, and, in this particular case, they’re incredibly loyal to Emma. She made sure they found places to stay after that whole business with the Land of Untold Stories and helped them learn some trades if they were going to stay in this province and--”  
  
“--Province,” Emma yells. Killian grins at her. “I couldn’t remember what we were officially calling each realm. I just kept thinking...place.”   
  
“That doesn’t have quite the right royal ring to it, does it, love?”   
  
“That’s what I’m saying!”   
  
“So what you’re telling me is these Vikings are pledging loyalty to Emma?” David asks skeptically. Henry’s going to bore a hole in the ceiling. Granny won’t appreciate that.

Killian nods. “Is that surprising?”  
  
“Of course not, but--”   
  
“--I can’t remember my anniversary,” Henry says, a bit manic and far too loud and Emma doesn’t have to worry about the damage she’s going to do to Granny’s mug stock because she can hear the crash behind the counter. And the cursing.

Emma blinks, swallowing back the several _tons_ of questions she can feel sitting on the tip of her tongue. She waves her hand, the mess behind the counter disappearing as quickly as it appeared, and Granny’s curses turn to thanks.

“What did you say?” David asks softly. Henry squeezes his eyes closed.

“Did you just say you forgot your anniversary?” Snow questions, and Henry doesn’t respond. Emma’s briefly worried about the state of his eyes, but she’s also a little busy gaping at Killian who, in turn, looks torn somewhere between surprised and hysterical.

“Kid,” Emma says. He sighs. That’s why she did it. “What do those words mean? Exactly?”  
  
It takes a few moments for Henry to look at her, eyes opening in what feels like slow motion and she can see his chest move when he takes a deep breath. “It really sounds horrible when you say it like that.”   
  
“Should we point out that you said it like that, again?” David mutters. Both Emma and Killian mumble _no_ at the same time. He mimes zipping his mouth closed.

“Is it actually some kind of memory curse?” Snow whispers, and Henry isn’t so much sitting in the chair anymore as he’s slowly, but surely sliding down it. His laugh lacks any humor, tongue darting between his lips again, and Emma’s positive she and Killian figure it out at the same time.

There’s something oddly poetic about that.

“We’re not doing curses anymore,” Emma says, doing her best to infuse some confidence in her voice. “But we have before.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Snow admits.

Killian pulls Hope’s hands away from his shirt, letting her fingers wrap around the now-blunt edge of his hook instead and Emma refuses to be held responsible for whatever her stomach does when he smiles at her. “This is the first time you and Ella are in this realm for your anniversary,” he says. It’s not a question, but Henry nods anyway and Emma isn’t sure if her pride is misplaced, but she’s married to a very smart pirate who wants to name the Lost Boys something else so they don’t feel like orphans anymore either. “And you were married in the Wish Realm, where time runs a bit differently. Much like Neverland.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” Henry mutters.

“Which would explain why your mother was so incredibly interested in my dealings with the Lost Boys earlier. Was that part of her research?”  
  
“I honestly have no idea.”   
  
“And then, of course, you were cursed,” Killian continues, the gear in his head practically making noise. “In the past. Which does stack the deck against us, doesn’t it?”   
  
“Isn’t that how you normally play cards?”   
  
“Don’t give away my secrets in front of the sovereigns.”   
  
David makes a ridiculous noise, eyes narrowing a bit, but Snow actually laughs and Emma can’t help but feel a little guilty that she didn’t know what was going on several days before. She is, however, incapable of keeping her feelings off her face and Henry’s shaking his head again when she meets his gaze.

“This is not your job, Mom,” he says. “And you’ve been busy getting the Vikings into battle formations or something. Oh man, you think the Vikings would be able to battle against Killian’s crew? They pillage and plunder too, right? Ransack.”  
  
“Good word,” David mutters, ignoring Snow’s quiet _oh my God_ that just seems wrong coming from her.

“Absolutely not,” Killian says, sounding a little less _parental_ and a little more _piratical._ “And I highly doubt the Vikings are in possession of a ship as grand as mine. Or married to The Savior.”   
  
“Were you planning on using my magic as a buoy in your theoretical battle with Vikings who, as we previously discussed, are pretty goddamn devoted to me?”   
  
Killian doesn’t blush, but the tips of his ears do have a slight reddish tint to them. “That’s not what I said at all.”   
  
Emma hums, matching his smile with one of his own and turning on Henry. He still looks a little worried, fingers tapping out an impatient rhythm when he crosses his arms. “I thought maybe you guys...had some idea,” he shrugs, answering a question she hadn’t asked yet. “I mean you were there too, but then you were also here and like Killian said, time doesn’t work the same depending on curse.”   
  
“That’s incredibly inconvenient isn’t it?” Killian asks.

“Yeah, you’re telling me. I know it was summer and right around solstice, but that already puts me like a month late if we’re following this realm’s calendar and we should probably be doing that if we’re staying in this realm, right?”  
  
Snow nods in understand, moving her hand to his shoulder now. “Did you think to ask Ella?”

“That’d kind of defeats the point of the surprise, right?”  
  
“It’s a surprise?”   
  
Emma can see every one of Henry’s teeth when he grits them. He sits up straighter. She holds her breath. “I think,” he says slowly, “we might be at ten years.”   
  
Granny drops something else.

And Emma’s head feels like it’s spinning – a distinct lack of gravity and oxygen in that diner and she kind of wishes Gunnar would come back in and swear undying fealty to her cause or _whatever_ just so she has something to ground herself in.

“How is that possible?” David asks, disbelief hanging from every single letter.

Henry shrugs. “I have absolutely no idea, but I’d imagine going back in time didn’t help and I mean...well, I know Mom wasn’t pregnant for like seven years, she’s not an elephant--”  
  
“--I need you to consider your next words very carefully, kid,” Emma mutters.

He runs a hand over his face, tugging on the back of his hair and they’re all taking turns staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “But Lucy’s not a baby, obviously, and time has to count for something and, well, you know there are traditions in this realm for major anniversaries.”

“What?”  
  
Henry’s head snaps towards Killian as soon as the question is out of his mouth. “Did you not know that?” He shakes his head. “Ah, well, yeah, you know, you have specific types of presents for each year. I looked it up and ten years is tin. Which is…”   
  
“Oh my God, we’ve circled right back around to Oz,” Emma groans. That, at least, gets Henry to laugh. Killian doesn’t move.

“Or aluminum. But I don’t know if we’re actually at ten and five is obviously the biggest one before ten and that’s wood, which also kind of sucks and...is there something like that in the Enchanted Forest?”  
  
Snow sticks her lower lip out, eyes darting from Killian to David and back again. “There was an old tradition that my mother used to talk about when I a little girl,” she starts. “But that was more for suitors than actual husbands.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Most relationships have little...moments, right? Things only the two of you share or understand and, as my mother would tell it, the idea was to give your suitor something that would remind him or her of you. When you weren’t there. It was, well, it was kind of flirting I suppose.”   
  
“Did you guys do that?” Emma asks, curiosity getting the better of her and she kind of appreciates the surprised look on her mother’s face. She isn’t, however, entirely prepared for her father to shift in his seat, nearly elbowing Killian in the process and Neal had long given up on using Henry as a jungle gym, more than content to shift to his father instead.

It’s cute, but it clearly makes it difficult for David to do whatever he’s trying to accomplish, and Emma’s patience is starting to wear thin by the time he gets his wallet out of his back pocket. He opens it, pulling out a handful of bills for several different realms, which is only _slightly_ absurd, but Emma hears herself actually say the word _aw_ out loud when he drops petals on the table.

Snowbells.

“Kept ‘em the entire time,” David says. “Even while we were cursed.”  
  
Emma finds that hard to believe. “How?”

“True love?”

“That’s a cop out answer, Grandpa,” Henry says, Emma nodding like that proves their case. David chuckles.

“They were in the drawer in the hospital. I didn’t know that they were until after the curse broke, obviously, and there have been a few different incarnations, but these came from the year we were in the Enchanted Forest and…” He shrugs, glancing around when he realizes they’ve developed an audience. “I keep them in my wallet now.”  
  
“Yeah, I think we’re past the point of courting now,” Henry mutters. “But, uh...that’s absurdly sentimental. Almost too sentimental. Even for you guys.”   
  
“Especially for you guys,” Emma adds.

Mary Margaret clicks her tongue again.

“It’s not like that with wolves,” Granny says pointedly, appearing next to the table with a freshly brewed pot of coffee in her hand. “You looked thirsty, Sheriff. Deputy.”  
  
“Ma’am,” Killian says. He shouldn’t be able to get that much charm into four letters, but it happens anyway and Emma’s got a very strong suspicion he’s doing his best to deflect.

Henry doesn’t notice. There’s new information to document. He’s already got his phone out. “What happens with wolves?” he asks, the words getting caught on their way out of him. Granny grabs him another mug before she answers.

It goes from there. Wolves mate and there’s something to do with blood and the moon and some kind of way that howls evolve when they find their mate, a fact Emma finds almost nearly as romantic as her father carrying around flower petals in his wallet.

She doesn’t say it out loud. It’s probably obvious on her face anyway.

And it’s as if someone’s sent out that royal proclamation she wanted before – a seemingly never-ending stream of customers coming and going and sharing their opinions on romance and feeling and _what Henry should do_ about his quest. At some point someone decides to keep referring to it as a quest and Henry’s only a little disgruntled by that.

That gets Killian to laugh again.

“You have to pledge your sword,” Mulan says, what might actually be hours later and the breakfast rush has a distinctly more brunch feel to it. “Have you not done that yet?”  
  
“I thought that was just Vikings,” Henry laughs. The joke doesn’t quite stick its landing.

“Those Vikings lack any honor. They’re less organized pirates and…”

She cuts herself off when she realizes what she’s said, eyes going dangerously wide and Elsa’s laugh does not sound regal at all. Definitely planning another wedding soon. “At least she said you were better than the Vikings, Captain,” she points out, reaching for Hope and it takes, approximately, two seconds for the baby in question to start playing with the snowflakes in the air around her.

Granny doesn’t appreciate that.

“Aye,” Killian mutters. “An unexpected compliment from a warrior with such a long and detailed list of successful battles.”

Mulan purses her lips – drifting dangerously close to a stalemate, but Elsa laughs again, twisting her wrist and the snowflakes get larger and more detailed and Henry tries to divert the conversation by asking about battle plans for the theoretical takedown of several Viking vessels.

David tries to mention walking the plank again.

“Arendelle is a bit different too,” Elsa says. They’ve pulled their own chairs from other tables as well, sinking onto them and ordering two plates of fries because the aristocracy may have plenty of culinary opinions, but the Queen thoroughly enjoys fried food. “We don’t celebrate the actually marriage itself, we celebrate the decision.”  
  
“What does that mean, exactly?” Emma asks.

“You call it...a proposal here, I believe.”  
  
“What do you call it?”   
  
“The declaration.”

Henry nearly chokes on the onion rings he’d ordered twenty minutes before. Neal has moved back onto his lap. “That sounds incredibly menacing.”  
  
“No, it doesn’t,” Elsa objects, but it only takes a few moments for her to sigh in resignation. “Alright, it sounds a little menacing, but it really is very nice in practice. It’s a celebration of the choice to dedicate yourself to another person for the rest of your life. It’s not something you should agree to lightly, right?”   
  
“True,” Emma agrees, eyes darting towards Killian and he smiles, memories of multiple proposals or declarations or whatever word they actually want to use and her finger goes to her rings out of habit.

“That still doesn’t really help me though,” Henry points out. “I still don’t know how long ago that was. And I proposed in the fall.”  
  
Snow makes a noise that’s somewhere between an _aw_ and actual words with a distinct romantic ring to them. David looks dangerously close to getting his wallet out again.

The door opens again, and again and again and Granny complains about _letting all the bought air out_ , which is a ridiculous sentence since Emma knows for a fact she does not pay her electric bill and Storybrooke runs on a substantial amount of magic. And most of the residents should not be allowed to complain about _anything_ because she’s been to the Enchanted Forest and can only imagine the kind of summers they endured in corsets.

Anything else, by comparison, is several different walks in the park.

They continue to attract a crowd though, because this is Storybrooke and it’s small and everyone has an opinion. By the time they finish the second round of fries and onion rings and the milkshakes Emma ordered because Emma wanted to dip her onion rings in her milkshake, they’ve learned several things.

Henry’s typed them all into his phone.

Oz doesn’t have marriages – which makes Zelena’s current mother of the bride schtick even _more_ absurd – but it does have binding ceremonies and something that requires an excessive amount of ribbon that changes length and color depending on which duchy of Oz you’re in.

“But obviously we’re going to go with green,” Zelena announces, and Killian cannot roll his eyes more. Emma bites her lip.

Agrabah weddings last more than a week, a fact that makes Aladdin pale slightly when he and Jasmine arrive in the diner and it must be nearly three in the afternoon at this point. Emma kind of wanted to spend the day on the Jolly – without the threat of impending Viking attack – but Henry’s thumbs are setting typing records and Regina hasn’t reported on her time travel research and Zelena promised she had _no idea_ how any of it worked anymore.

And then she started talking about wedding color schemes again.

Killian had to turn away.

DunBroch apparently has some kind of drinking contest between the bride and groom’s families and, if said bride and groom are from separate clans, a challenge as to who can throw a tree trunk farther.

“No, of course not,” Will Scarlet tells them when asked if Wonderland has wedding traditions or any traditions or anything remotely romantic to its name. “Wonderland’s a terrible place where nothing good has ever happened. Why would you think that?”  
  
Henry tilts his head. Neal has fallen asleep. “Well, Cora was the queen of--”

“Ripping people’s hearts out of their chests,” Killian says. “I don’t think it’s the same thing, lad.”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean there were hearts involved.”  
  
“Painfully,” Will laughs. “And in some cases, deadly. I’m sure that’s not what you’re going with when it comes to your own gal.”   
  
“I’d like to avoid any semblance of death if I can. I think that’d probably freak everyone out.”

Will hums in agreement, hooking his foot around another chair and they should probably just push all the goddamn tables together at this point. Emma can’t get out of her seat. There are too many people in the way.

She’s not as frustrated by that as she would have been several years earlier.

“You all going to order more food or am I going to have to pay for myself here?” Will asks, propping his feet under Henry’s chair. Elsa pushes a half-finished burger at him. “You’re a benevolent leader, ma’am.”  
  
“And you’re far too self confident for your own good,” she says. There’s a smile on her face.

“That’s a sentence I don’t understand, your majesty. I hear it’s a bit cooler in your realm though. Any interest in hiring a thief with a heart of gold?”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma sighs. “You have a job. You own a bar.”   
  
Will shrugs. “There’s no harm in trying to procure income from multiple sources. Don’t you agree, Captain?”   
  
Killian doesn’t blink at the term, more sarcasm than respect and Emma’s not sure what she’s waiting for, but she hopes it’s something good and maybe a few moments to mention that she’s got her own flower petals sitting in a tiny, plastic bag in the nightstand next to her bed at home.

She refuses to admit to that in front of her father.

She’ll never hear the end of it.

And she doesn’t have a chance either – because the door slams open again, the bell that dangles over it threatening to fly off with the force of whoever’s standing on the other side of the threshold. “For, Leopold’s sake,” Granny mutters, and Henry’s eyes threaten to fall out of his head.

“That’s my several times removed grandfather,” Snow says quickly. “Not my actual father. No one was using my father as a curse.”  
  
“That you know of,” David mumbles. Mulan tries to nod without anyone noticing. It does not work. It’s almost funny how much it does not work.

“Ah, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Regina says, stepping into the diner with a look on her face that makes it almost _too_ obvious she’s finished her research. She’s got a stack of papers propped on her hip, eyes tracing across the diner like she’s surprised to find so many people there and Lucy runs by her with the kind of enthusiasm only a kid clearly hopped on several doses of sugar can have.

“Dad, Dad, Dad,” she crows, and that still taking some getting used to for Emma. “We figured it out! All of it!”  
  
Henry shifts Neal on his thigh, slinging an arm around his daughter’s shoulder. He glances at Emma, worry practically rippling off him and--”I think the jig is up, kid,” she says.

“Damn.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have come into Granny’s then and announced your plan,” Regina says. She has to move a few chairs out of the way to get to their monstrosity of a table and discarded dishes. “Your bill is going to be astronomical, you know that?”   
  
“Yeah, well," Emma mumbles. "Dad’s got like...bills from Middle Earth in his wallet too so…”

David flicks at her shoulder. She throws a fry at him. Mary Margaret clicks her tongue. Regina does not look impressed.

“What did you find out, Mom?” Henry asks. “And why did you have an assistant?”  
  
“Because the help was offered,” Regina says easily. Lucy beams at all of them. “And because you’re not the only one who couldn’t figure out how time passed in this realm. Or the all-realm for that matter.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Emma wishes she could actually see the light bulb go off over her head. She assumes it looks impressive. “Oh, she didn’t know either! Did she?”   
  
“No,” Regina grins. “That’s almost more romantic, isn’t it?”   
  
“I think so.”   
  
“What are you talking about?” Henry demands.

“Mom was really worried she’d missed it already,” Lucy says. “She looked up solstice for here and she, like,--”

“--I believe the technical term was freaked out,” Regina mutters. Henry slumps in his chair again. “But,” she continues. “Between your exceptionally intelligent daughter and myself, we’ve come to figure out at least some of the timeline and we’ve made an official decision.”  
  
“A royal decision,” Lucy adds, bobbing on the balls of her feet. She knocks over a plate. It was only a matter of time.

Emma, Regina and Elsa both flick their wrists at the same time – a move that ends with more snowflakes and a few sparks and they may have possibly broken the air conditioning, but the plate is gone, so, that seems like kind of a win.

“A very royal decision,” Regina amends, the smile on her face getting wider. “We’re going to avoid the incredibly confusing time travel aspect because, well….we can’t figure it out.”  
  
Emma snickers, ducking her eyes so she can avoid the inevitable glare on Regina’s face. Killian’s fingers brush over the back of her palm.

“Yeah, well, welcome to the club,” Henry mumbles. “So what did you decide on then?”  
  
“We’re just going to celebrate.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“A party, Dad,” Lucy yells. She’s getting some good air on her jumps. “We told Mom and she’s looking for places and we thought we might have food here and we could get more milkshakes and then there could be music and--”   
  
“--The air conditioner is broken,” Granny announces, a quick shutdown of a plan that isn’t much more than a sugar rush at this point. Henry’s throat is probably sustaining permanent damage from so much sighing.

“I mean I can probably do something about that,” Elsa reasons. Emma barely hears her though, eyes on Killian and the way he sits up a bit straighter, holding Hope again and pressing a kiss to her head like he’s looking for a little bit of extra courage.

She’s got to stop coming up with these Oz puns.

“It doesn’t have to be here,” Killian says. Henry blinks.

“What? Where would we...oh. Seriously?”  
  
“Why would I lie about that?”   
  
“I’d totally make you walk the plank if you were lying right now.”   
  
“That’s fair.”

Killian nearly beams. Emma’s just going to die from an overwhelming sense of pride at that table. It’s not really a bad way to go, honestly.

“What are we missing?” David asks. “And stop stealing my jokes. That’s wrong.”  
  
Henry shrugs. “Pirate.”   
  
Emma’s heart explodes. Mary Margaret claps her hands over her mouth. Elsa’s shoulders actually droop with the force of her emotional response.

“It’s your ship too, lad,” Killian says, and Emma really has no idea what any part of her body is doing. “If we’re going to celebrate your declaration or your anniversary or whatever other strange traditions any of these realms have, then it only seems right to do it on the Jolly.”  
  
Emma hopes she’s not crying. That’d be embarrassing.

“You know you whole lot are far too disgustingly familial for your own good,” Will says, effectively bringing them back to the present and pulling them out of anything even remotely emotional. Mulan swats at the back of his head.

Henry ignores him. “You’re sure?” he asks, not taking his eyes away from Killian.

“Of course I am,” Killian nods. “There’s no need to get reassurance.”  
  
“Ok.”   
  
“Alright.”   
  
Henry waits a moment, chewing lightly on his lower lip and Emma wishes her own idiosyncrasies would stop showing up on her kid’s face. “But like…” he starts, wavering slightly and Killian lifts his eyebrows. “Scarlet, I swear, if you tell me how ridiculous it is to say thank you I will challenge you to a duel.”   
  
“Me too,” David adds.

“Me three,” Mulan says.

Will blanches.

“It’s not ridiculous,” Killian promises, clapping a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I’m sure there are other traditions for a celebration of this size though?”

He glances at Regina, the smile back on her face and she’s magic’ed a piece of paper somewhere, a pen flying through the air and making a list. “Of course,” she says. “Granny, I’m sure you’ll be able to feed us even without your air conditioning?”

Granny rests her hands on the counter, nodding despite her very obvious reservations. “As long as the Queen promises to fix it eventually?”  
  
“If not, I’ll make it snow perpetually in your freezer,” Elsa promises.

“Good enough for me.”

Emma’s never entirely sure how they make it all happen – but they’ve got several different realms of power to work with so she probably should have assumed it would all go off without any metaphorical hitches.

And at some point Zelena has become some kind of unstoppable party-planning force.

There are lights hanging above the Jolly when they step on deck which, upon closer examination, are actually tiny pinpricks of light simply hanging in the air and Emma can already smell the chocolate mixing in with the salt in the air and there are brightly colored pillows everywhere, people sitting and standing and laughing and so _happy_ there’s no way to question that it’s a celebration of love on some grand scale.

“She cleans up rather well doesn’t she?” Killian asks, a hand on Emma’s back and a baby in the crook of his elbow. She nods. It’s difficult to actually speak.

The night goes by in a blur of several different emotions that Will Scarlet would definitely make fun of her for if he weren’t so busy refilling the cups of the dwarves and the Vikings who were a little wary of boarding the pirate ship when they weren't trying to loot it, but Gunnar moves first and introduces himself to Killian and the whole thing is as absurd as it is wonderful.

David makes a speech – “I believe it’s his royal obligation, love,” Killian mutters in Emma’s ear when she rolls her eyes and she has to turn into his chest so no one hears her laugh. His arm wraps around her waist immediately – and Henry and Ella kiss when someone clinks a piece of silverware on their glass.

“I grew up in this realm too,” Dorothy reasons, pressing a kiss to Ruby’s cheek as well.

There’s more smiling and storytelling and Elsa froze part of the harbor so people could skate, a feat that endlessly entertains Lucy all night. And by the time the stars in the sky are starting to get brighter than the lights Tink and Tiger Lily made, Hope has been asleep for hours, a quiet weight in Emma’s arms she doesn’t mind holding onto indefinitely.

“We could take her down below, love,” Killian says, people starting to drift back home and Henry and Ella have thanked them both no less than two dozen times.

Emma hums, the threat of exhaustion lingering over her shoulder and he’s far too solid behind her, arm back around her waist like it belongs there.

They’ve, mostly, graduated from using the Jolly as a means of getting Hope to sleep, but they’ve also been absurdly busy and there’s still far more baby _things_ in the captain’s quarters than there probably should be.

“If I tell you I’m just going to fall asleep down here, is that a bad thing?” Emma asks. Killian’s answering smile rivals every source of light in the entire New England area.

“Of course not, love. I don’t imagine the lass will have many objections.  
  
Hope does not, in fact, have any objections – completely oblivious to her change in surroundings, even when Emma puts her in the pop-up crib that barely fits next to the desk in the corner of the cabin. Killian opens the small windows, the scent of salt immediately filling the space and the air a little cooler and Emma curls onto her side of the cot like it’s several years before and she’s not entirely prepared for the expression on his face when he turns around.

It’s not quite sentimental and not retrospective either, it’s softer than both of those and bigger than them as well, some kind of never-ending extensive thing that ignores confusing timelines and even the concept of time travel and Emma raps her knuckles on the few inches of open space next to her.

Killian chuckles lightly, toeing out of his shoes and twisting his hook off, resting it on the edge of the desk when he walks by. He props his head up on his hand when he lays down, staring at Emma with an intensity that she practically thrives on at this point. And she doesn’t plan on asking the question, but the words don’t seem to care and she can see the slight glint in his eyes when he processes the words.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what, Swan?”  
  
“About Henry and the Jolly and, you know, joint ownership.”   
  
He scoffs, the ends of his lips quirking up and he licks his lips when Emma’s fingers brush over the edge of his blunted arm. “That’s a rather direct way of putting it, don’t you think?”   
  
“You’re avoiding the question.”   
  
“I’m not. I’m pointing out your choice of words.” Emma widens her eyes, like that’ll get a real response out of him and she knows it will. “Of course I did,” Killian says softly, and she knows it’s not because he’s worried about waking up the sleeping baby a few feet away. “Did you think I didn’t?”   
  
“No, no, of course not. I just...I don’t know. It was a decidedly emotional conversation and day and I have flower petals in my drawer.”   
  
Killian blinks. “What?”

“How is it that you can still do some absurdly nice thing and act like the very good parent that you are and it immediately gets me to spill my guts?”  
  
“I’d rather your guts stay where they are love, I’m rather fond of them.”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
He has to duck his head to kiss her, a quick brush of his lips over hers that has Emma chasing after him and it is _absurd_ how good he looks in moonlight. “What kind of flower petals?”

“Rose petals.”  
  
“Rose petals?”   
  
“If you’re just going to repeat me, this conversation is going to go nowhere real fast.”

“Of course, Swan,” Killian says, the grin obvious in the words. “Go on with the story.”  
  
“I mean...that was really it. They’re rose petals from our first date and I...well, no one had ever gotten me flowers before and I came back to the loft and Mom had put it in a vase and I didn’t want it to die and Elsa’s actually really good at preservation magic so...I kept them.”   
  
He doesn’t say anything immediately, but he’s looking at her like _that_ again which is as much an answer as anything and Emma’s only slightly scandalized when he actually has the gall to get out of bed. “What the hell are you doing?” she hisses, but Killian waves his hand over his shoulder, rummaging through desk cabinets and several drawers she didn’t know were there.

It takes a few moments until he finds what he’s looking for, turning around like he’s discovered several previously hidden treasures. Emma stutters when he drops something on his side of the cot. It’s a tiny, felt bag.

“What is this?” she asks.

“Look inside.”  
  
Her hands shake slightly when she reaches forward, mind racing and heart thumping, but she’s got a few suspicions and Killian keeps smiling at her. Emma unties the bag, tipping its contents onto her palm and it’s--

“--A cork?”

Killian nods, perching on the edge of the cot and tugging the thing out of her grip like it’s made of gold. “The first time you were on this ship, you and I shared a drink below decks,” he says, and Emma swears every single letter sears its way into her soul. Or something less disgusting. Something more romantic. God, she might be crying. “And I realized then that I would...do whatever it took to make sure you succeeded. I’d been leaning that way for quite some time, of course, but you were rather determined, love and I found myself...appreciating it. Quite a bit.”  
  
“Is that you telling me you liked me then?” Emma asks flippantly. If she makes jokes, she won’t cry. That makes sense.

Killian doesn’t miss a beat, twisting the cork in between his fingers and nodding as if it were obvious. It kind of was. Is. Continues to be. Tense are confusing. “Quite a bit,” he repeats.

Emma kisses him first that time, surging up at the same time he tilts his head and it’s a miracle the cork doesn’t end up underneath the cot, but it’s been a day for romantic declarations and understanding and new knowledge and she really does love sleeping on the Jolly.

“It’s not our anniversary though,” Emma mumbles, mostly into his lips. They’re a tangle of lips and her fingers in Killian’s hair, a scene she desperately hopes their kid never retains memory of if they do manage to wake her up.

“True,” Killian agrees. “But I do believe we came to some sort of consensus that traditions were rather fluid.”  
  
“God, you can’t talk like that while I’m trying to make out with you.”   
  
He grins against her, another quick kiss and fingers drifting dangerously high on her spine. “Noted. Far be it from me to distract you from the plan.”

They do fall asleep eventually, still twisted together with the cork back in its bag and sitting on the desk next to Killian’s hook, and Hope doesn’t sleep perfectly through the night. Emma wakes up to find her daughter in her husband’s arms, standing by the half-opened window with quiet words spoken against a small tuft of hair. She picks up a few words before her eyelids start to flutter again, something that sounds like _new anniversaries_ making its way across the cabin and Emma wakes up with Killian’s arm back around her waist.

Like it belongs there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So since the show ended I've been writing canon drabbles that have been getting progressively longer every time I write something and also have started connecting together and I have no excuse for any of them, but the internet is real nice to me so I keep writing them. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr (or send more canon prompts): http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	18. Step Right Up and Greet the Mets

“You have to change.”  
  
Killian arches an eyebrow, smile moving across his face in slow motion like he’s expecting Emma to tell him she’s kidding. She’s not kidding. He cannot wear that. He can’t even leave the apartment like that.

She waves her hands through the air when he doesn’t actually move to immediately find a shirt that does not include the color red at all, and his answering laugh is just a little shaky. God. She told him this was a bad idea.

This is the single worst idea any one in the history of ideas has ever had and once David had suggested they take a weekend-long trip to Philadelphia for the _history_ of it. Mary Margaret’s responding glare was so pointed Emma had been briefly concerned she’d been replaced with a totally different person.

They didn’t talk about Philadelphia again.

“I’m serious,” Emma says, nodding back towards Killian who, it appears, has frozen in the doorway of his own bedroom. His smile has turned a little incredulous. “What part of the instructions were confusing before?”  
  
He tilts his head. And blinks. His smile wavers. This is going to be a goddamn disaster. “I thought you were kidding,” Killian chuckles, stepping over the threshold and resting a hand on Emma’s shoulder.

She tries not to sigh too loudly. Or possibly burst into pre-game tears based solely on her friend’s absurd baseball-fandom tendencies. And maybe she’s a little nervous.

Ok, so maybe she’s a lot nervous.

But this is important. With capital letters and underlines and everything’s probably in cursive just to really drive the point home.

They’re going to a game.

Emma and Killian are going to a baseball game with Mary Margaret and David. In Queens. With seats in the outfield. Left field, to be specific. And Killian really can’t wear that shirt. There’s far too much red in it.

“Swan,” Killian says, jerking her attention back to the present and away from her nerves because she is _nervous_ and she’s not sure what she’s going to do if the Mets actually lose this afternoon. Probably jump into goddamn left field. God, they’re totally going to lose this afternoon.

“You really need to change,” she mutters. “Like. Right now. Or we’re going to be late.”  
  
“The game is at one.”   
  
“I know.”   
  
Killian’s eyebrows move again, furrowing and twisting and his confusion is practically radiating off him at this point. That’s understandable. It’s an absurd thing. This is why Emma didn’t want to go, but she’s weak in the face of Mary Margaret’s promises that _it’ll be fine_ and David kept bringing up _friendship rules_ like those were real things and Killian had told them yes already.

They’d decided a week before – after Ruby said she and Dorothy wouldn’t be able to go because they had a family thing and then Ruby had sent Emma several increasingly apologetic text messages about it.

Emma never responded.

And, really, the whole thing began _years_ ago when Emma was working for some sketchy bails bonds place downtown and she’d met David that way and met Mary Margaret by extension and they decided to, more or less, adopt her. They didn’t really ask. They didn’t really have to. They were friends. Mary Margaret made Emma food so she didn’t starve to death in her shoebox of an apartment and David kept arresting criminals and, one day, they decided to watch a baseball game. A Mets game.

Emma is fairly sure her jaw is still recovering from that afternoon. It spent most of it on the floor.

It kept going from there – more food and more friendship and Emma had some kind of perverse fascination with the baseball _thing_ because it really wasn’t normal, but she never really had to worry about it because Ruby and Dorothy went to the games with Mary Margaret and David.

But then David got a new partner.

A very good looking, far too sure of himself partner that Mary Margaret was sure would be _perfect_ for Emma.

She disagreed, but Mary Margaret was nothing if not persistent and Emma was in the precinct one night after catching another skip and there was a cut on her hand from trying to catch the asshole and there was blood and Killian and quiet words and easy smiles and, two weeks later, when he asked if she _wanted to get coffee_ sometime, she felt herself nodding. His voice had kind of shook a little bit. That was probably what did it.

That was four months ago now and things were good and great and several other very positive adjectives, but then came Ruby’s text messages and Killian’s announcement that he’d _already told David we’d go, what’s the big deal_ and now Emma can’t stop sighing and dictating her boyfriend’s clothing choices.

It’s going to be a disaster.

“Swan,” Killian says, dropping onto the bed next to her and she can’t do much except hum in response. “You’re doing that thing with your face, love.”  
  
“Ok, well, that’s exceptionally rude.”   
  
He laughs again, but there’s a bit of a nervous edge to it and his voice had kind of shook a bit when he told her about the plans. His hand is warm when it lands on her thigh. There probably won’t be any shade in left field. Maybe, if they’re lucky, they’ll melt before things get too weird.

That’s probably too much to ask from the world.

“Not rude,” Killian corrects. “Curious. About the reason behind the face thing.”  
  
“I really need you to stop calling it a face thing.”   
  
“I’m certainly open to other suggestions.”   
  
“What if you suddenly contracted some kind of deadly disease?”   
  
It’s obviously not the question Killian expects her to ask, and Emma briefly congratulates herself on getting _his_ face to do _that_ thing. “What exactly is it you’re worried about?” Killian asks. “Because I really didn’t think you were that worried about the Mets standings.”   
  
“The Mets standing, currently, is pretty goddamn shitty.”   
  
“Ah, that’s because they’re not the Yankees. Farm system is decidedly lacking and no one really knows what’s going on with David Wright--”

“--You cannot talk about David Wright when we get to the field,” Emma interrupts sharply, Killian’s eyebrows flying up his face. They’re going to be late. There are rules. Or so one of Ruby’s text messages explained the night before. They should be filming this whole thing. For posterity. Or, like, Netflix.

Emma assumes there’d be a pretty good audience for whatever it is that’s about to happen.

“I didn’t expect you to be so defensive about David Wright,” Killian says lightly, but his eyebrows are still halfway up his hairline and Emma wants to start pacing and possibly just bobbing up and down. She’s got a ridiculous amount of nervous energy.

“You can only say positive things about David Wright. And Wilmer Flores. Mary Margaret loves Wilmer Flores.”  
  
“Isn’t he the one that cried that one time?”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“These are legitimate questions.”   
  
“No,” Emma argues. “They’re antagonizing questions and you think you’re being funny, but Rubes sent me rules for this and--”   
  
“--I’m sorry, what did you just say?”   
  
Emma groans, rolling her head back like that’ll maybe get it to just roll off her neck and that’d definitely get her out of this. Strictly speaking, she shouldn’t be as nervous as she is. People like sports. Normal people like sports. And it’s not like she’s embarrassed by her friends.

Not really, at least.

But, well, Emma’s kind of superstitious too and while it doesn’t require her to get to Queens several hours before first pitch, it does make her kind of cling to things and, in the last few weeks, she’s realized she’d like to cling to Killian Jones quite a bit.

That’s the single worst sentence she’s ever thought in her life.

She’s, like, ninety-seven and a half percent positive this won’t make a shred of difference, but it’s that two and a half that’s messing with her head.

And NY1 claimed there was a heat advisory that afternoon.

There’s no shade in left field.

“Emma,” Killian says, and it draws another sigh out of her, this one complete with an eye roll for good measure. He smirks. “You keep drifting off in the middle of the conversation. Why was Ruby sending you rules?”  
  
“Because she didn’t want us to get in trouble.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Don’t you have a shirt with orange in it?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Ok, you really cannot just keep repeating me because I’m already nervous this is going to go terribly and I think Steven Matz is pitching and like--”   
  
He doesn’t let her finish. That’s probably for the best because Emma doesn’t know a ton about the Mets pitching rotation, but she at least knows Steven Matz has problems with inconsistencies on the mound and now he’s some kind of trade possibility and neither one of those things matter much when Killian is kissing her.

They’ve gotten very good at this in the last few months – stolen moments in the precinct and it wasn’t really against the rules, but they hadn’t really _announced_ it and that might have been more of Emma’s worries and concerns as well. She was having a difficult time remembering any of them now.

She’s starting to have decidedly different thoughts.

Decidedly different and slightly terrifying thoughts because she hasn’t given credence to thoughts like these in _forever_ , and now they’re just kind of sitting in every single corner of her brain and she really needs the goddamn Mets to beat the goddamn Nationals this afternoon.

She hopes the AC on the train works well.

“You need to relax,” Killian mutters, resting his forehead against Emma’s. She doesn’t remember when she moved her fingers into his hair.

“That is impossible.”  
  
“We’ve got to think positively.”   
  
“We’re going to a Mets game.”   
  
He laughs, brushing another quick kiss to her lips and Emma resists the very real urge to chase after him. They don’t have time. They have rules and wardrobe changes. She’s going to get several servings of cheese fries from Shake Shack.

“Steven Matz is good this year,” Killian announces. “And deGrom is pitching anyway.”  
  
“Is that better or worse?”   
  
“Depends on who you ask, I suppose. Although it probably means they won’t score any runs at all. I think that’s a prerequisite for deGrom pitching this season. But they’ll also probably win so he can get another no-decision.”   
  
“Check your baseball jargon.”   
  
Killian flashes her another grin – one that makes her pulse pick up and the thoughts in her brain practically reverberate against her brain or something far less disgusting than that and Emma’s breath catches when he tugs his shirt off. “I think you’re staring, Swan,” he says, grabbing a blue t-shirt out of the closet and it’s not the orange they’re supposed to wear, but Emma’s not following that rule either.

Mary Margaret will probably give them shirts.

“Absolutely not,” Emma argues. “You’re the one parading.”  
  
“Can I do that in my own apartment?”   
  
She shrugs, finally getting off the bed as well and there are several text messages waiting for her on her phone. They’re all from David. There are far too many exclamation points. Maybe they should take an Uber. They’ll hit traffic in the Midtown Tunnel.

“Well,” Killian says, turning back around and holding his arms out like he’s showing off a three-piece suit. “What do you think, Swan? Do I pass muster?”  
  
Emma doesn’t respond to David. She walks across the tiny bit of floor space instead, resting her hands on Killian’s chest and nodding with something she hopes feels like confidence.

“Flying colors,” she promises, pushing up on her toes to kiss him and they tell the Uber driver to take the RFK Bridge instead.

David and Mary Margaret are standing in Jackie Robinson rotunda when Emma and Killian finally make it to Citi Field, somehow, not late and only a little worried because Ruby had started texting her again while they were on the Grand Central Parkway.

They’re pacing, tiny semi circles that only look a little ridiculous because Mary Margaret also has numbers on her face and a foam finger on her hand and she and David are wearing matching t-shirts. They’re holding matching t-shirts.

Emma knew they were going to make them wear t-shirts.

“Hi,” Mary Margaret says brightly, and Emma knows she leans into Killian’s hand on the small of her back. “Where were you guys? We worried?”  
  
“Hit some traffic at the BQE exit,” Killian explains.

“You didn’t take the train?”  
  
“That probably would have taken longer. Right?”   
  
Emma can’t help the quiet laugh at his follow-up question, the almost _too_ obvious question behind the question because he quite clearly was _not_ prepared for Mary Margaret Nolan, number one New York Mets fan in the greater tri-state area and possibly the continental United States. She’d probably suggest the world.

It might honestly be the world.

The numbers on her cheeks are, upon closer inspection, deGrom’s number and a number eight that’s for a player Emma is sure she’s never heard of. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t want to do that before they get to their seats.

Mary Margaret is wearing an arm sleeve. It’s neon green. It clashes horribly with the shirts.

Because the shirts are bright orange and have _T7LA_ emblazoned across the front, Killian’s eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out what the hell it means. Emma asked the question once. She’s almost surprised Mary Margaret’s shirt doesn’t actually say several different scathing things regarding Bryce Harper’s hair.

Small miracles or whatever.

“The 7-Line Army,” Emma mutters, Killian in something that, hopefully, is understanding.

“Very orange,” he whispers.

“This is why you couldn’t wear red.”  
  
Mary Margaret, clearly, has super-sonic hearing. “What?” she balks, earning a few curious glances and David looks dangerously close to arresting his own partner. Killian grips the back of Emma’s shirt. At least she’s got another one to change into if he rips it.

“You were going to wear red,” David seethes, and Emma glances over her shoulder in just enough time to see some of the color drain from Killian’s face.

“I changed,” he says. “Quickly. Immediately. What is happening right now? Mary Margaret, what is on your arm?”

“It’s a Cespedes armband,” Mary Margaret explains like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You guys really didn’t take the seven?”  
  
“No, and I’m glad we didn’t if it comes with an army.”   
  
“You knew about Steven Matz’s trade rumors, but you don’t know what the 7-Line Army is?” Emma asks, genuine surprise coloring her voice. Killian seems to have lost control of his face.

“This is the first time I’ve ever been to Citi Field.”  
  
He’s met with several different exclamations of _are you kidding me_ and _how did we not know that_ and _we have to get to the seats now, so he can see the whole field_ and Killian actually looks like he’s contemplating a rather quick retreat.

His hand tightens on Emma’s shirt.

“How is that possible?” Mary Margaret demands. “You’ve lived in New York forever.”  
  
“I mean, a few months.”   
  
“Forever! It’s July! The season has been going on for months!”

“And it’s not like I haven’t been busy,” Killian reasons, but that just makes Emma blush instead and David looks far too knowing. She’s going to throw him into left field. She wants cheese fries. And a milkshake.

Forty-seven milkshakes.

“And,” Killian continues, “it’s not like I’ve never been to baseball games before.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s expression turns unreadable. “What kind of baseball games?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“What kind of baseball games? Where? Here? In the city?”   
  
“Mary Margaret, oh my God,” Emma mumbles, but she might have stayed silent for all the good it does her. David is actively trying to get all of them to move. It’s not working.

“I went to a Yankee game years ago.”  
  
“How long ago?”   
  
Killian blinks, the whole thing inching dangerously close to interrogation territory. Emma’s just glad it’s not a giveaway day. She assumes that would, somehow, make this entire day even more insane. “Um,” he says. “Around the 2009 era.”   
  
Emma has never seen that look on Mary Margaret’s face. It’s like thunder and lightning and several hurricanes and does not match up with a single thing Emma knows about Mary Margaret. This is not a woman who makes sure her friends don’t starve.

This is a woman who is still bitter the Yankees won the World Series in 2009.

“Right,” she says brusquely. “Right. Well, at least they beat Philadelphia that year.”  
  
Killian nods slowly, stunned into silence and that’s probably for the best.

“So,” David grins, a forced calm that’s as disarming as anything that’s happened in the last ten minutes. “You guys didn’t take the train, but lucky for you, you’re now honorary members of the Army. Put the shirts on, please don’t mention the Yankees again and, uh...let’s go see if anyone hits one out in BP, ok?”  
  
No one hits much of anything out during BP and Emma has to bite her tongue to make sure she doesn’t mention it’s because no one on the Mets roster is Aaron Judge or Giancarlo Stanton. She values her life too much for that.

And she’s far too busy being vaguely stunned by everything else that is currently happening.

Mary Margaret is famous.

They arrive at their seats to what sounds like thunderous applause – ”That’s louder than any cheer we’ll hear all afternoon,” Killian mumbles, and he grins when Emma swats at his chest. He looks unfairly good in a bright orange shirt. – and Mary Margaret nods at people David knows by name and the whole thing kind of feels like the return of benevolent rulers after a particularly distressing battle.

Or, in this case, a disastrous road swing that included a loss to the Diamondbacks that was just embarrassing.

People stand up and shake hands and several grown men clap David on the back like that’s normal, but Emma saw _Fever Pitch_ once so she kind of assumes he’s Jimmy Fallon in this situation. That’s a lie. Mary Margaret is definitely Jimmy Fallon.

She shouldn’t be surprised when Mary Margaret starts asking about the families of every person in a three-seat radius and, at one point, even poses for a photo with one kid who can’t meet her gaze and stares at his shoes when he mumbles _thank you, Snow_ and runs back to his obviously grateful parents.

Emma’s jaw is dislocated. She’s positive.

“What the hell is happening right now?” Killian asks. He hasn’t sat down yet. The people in the row behind them keep glaring at him and Emma like they’re intruders. She hears someone ask _where’s Ruby_.

“You should probably just get that question tattooed on your forehead at this point,” Emma suggests. “I really doubt that’ll be the last time you ask it.”  
  
Killian widens his eyes meaningfully, slinging an arm around Emma’s shoulder and David introduces him to the guy who was curious about Ruby. His name is Leroy, apparently, and he’s in possession of a cowbell which doesn’t surprise Emma at all anymore, and he also keeps referring to Mary Margaret as Snow.

“Is someone going to explain that?” Emma asks, glancing at David because he may be the only normal person in that entire stadium. And her boyfriend looks a little shell shocked.

David opens his mouth to answer, but Leroy the cowbell guy responds before he can even think about saying actual words. “Have you ever heard the story of the rally parakeet?”

Killian almost falls over. Emma blinks no less than thirty-two times, gaze darting from David to Mary Margaret and back to the cowbell guy and then, for good measure, over the guy covered in pins a few rows away.   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m going to take that as a no,” Leroy smiles. They’re relining the field. This game is going to start soon and Emma kind of feels like the Earth is spinning off its axis.

She shakes her head. “I wasn’t aware there were that many parakeets in Queens.”  
  
“We are fairly close to the zoo, Swan,” Killian reasons. She bites her tongue again.

“It’s got nothing to do with the zoo,” Mary Margaret mutters, and there are little bits of color on her cheeks like she’s finally realized that this is insane. But then she adjusts her goddamn neon armband and the ridiculous starts all over again. “Ok, so, it’s 2015, right?” she starts, and maybe it is a giveaway day because Emma nods like she’s an actual bobblehead. “And there was a raccoon here--”  
  
“--A raccoon,” Killian interrupts, jaw snapping shut when Mary Margaret’s eyes flash.

“Yes, a raccoon. That’s not an important part of the story. The story is that, for reasons, no one can understand still, a parakeet appeared behind home plate. Yo was at the plate, his armband was yellow and we scored three runs after the bird showed up.”  
  
“We won that game,” David adds.

“You realize you’re referring to yourselves as the collective we,” Emma points out. “Like you’re part of the team.”  
  
“That’s because you haven’t heard the rest of the story,” Leroy says.

“The bird flew off,” Mary Margaret says. “Eventually. And it kind of drifted around the stadium and then…”  
  
“Landed on her shoulder,” David finishes. Emma’s jaw is going to have to be studied. It should not hang open for that long.

Killian’s laugh sounds impossibly loud.

“Are you kidding me?” Emma asks, but Mary Margaret shakes her head, the flush in her cheeks growing. “Why didn’t I know about that?”  
  
“I don’t like to brag.”   
  
“Brag? Are you trying to claim ownership of the bird?”   
  
“It was Snow’s bird,” Leroy promises. This isn’t just ridiculous anymore. It’s an absolute farce and impossible, but Emma is also pretty certain Mary Margaret wished the usher happy birthday so maybe she can control unexpected wildlife in Queens.

“Landed right on her shoulder,” David grins. “Like she summoned it or something. So the 7-Line started calling her Snow. It’s stuck.”

Emma widens her eyes. “Since 2015?”

“The highlight of 2015, honestly.”

There are several murmurings of _fuck the Royals_ and a few pointed jeers about both versions of Kansas City, an insult barrage Emma has to appreciate because they really are covering all their bases.

“Plus, we won the game,” Mary Margaret says. “That’s all I ever care about.”  
  
Emma hums, waiting for the inevitable hidden cameras to appear. They don’t. That’s...unexpected. And Killian has more questions.

“How exactly did you decide you were going to be superfan?” he asks, sinking down into a seat and his arm, somehow, stays around Emma’s shoulders. She’s kind of worried her brain is going to explode. She hopes no one hits a ball her direction.

It’ll probably just slam into her head.

That’s another _Fever Pitch_ reference.

She’s got to come up with a movie about the Mets to think about. She doesn’t know if there are any movies about the Mets.

“It’s very stereotypical,” Mary Margaret says. “My dad was a big fan, had a special on the ‘86 team that he actually recorded off the TV and I used to watch it when I was a kid. I’ve always been kind of a fan of the underdogs and catchy taglines.”  
  
“Tag lines?”   
  
“Yeah, you know, Amazin’ and all that. But, uh, I watched that tape until it broke, which might have broke my dad a little, but I grew up in Rego Park and blue and orange is a way of life there. There are no other teams.”   
  
“Especially in 2009,” David mumbles.

Killian rolls his eyes. His arm feels very heavy on Emma’s shoulders. “I wasn’t going to bring it up again.”  
  
“Yeah, you better not.”   
  
“Anyway,” Mary Margaret continues pointedly. “My greatest regret in life is not being alive to see the ‘86 Series and I have to live with memories of the Subway Series and, obviously, 2015 and, you know, screw Kansas City. Both of them.”   
  
“Oh my God, Mary Margaret,” Emma says again, and maybe she should get _that_ tattooed on _her_ forehead. Mary Margaret just shrugs.

“Ah, well, they’re rebuilding now anyway. If we get Jacob some run support today, then we’ll be fine. He’s going to win the Cy.”  
  
“It’s like she’s speaking another language,” Killian mutters in Emma’s ear and she pulls her lips back behind her teeth so she doesn’t laugh too loudly.

“And she just referred to Jacob deGrom by his first name only,” Emma laughs. The lip thing didn’t work. “Like they’re friends.”  
  
“We’ve met more than once,” Mary Margaret says, and both Killian and Emma gape at her. David looks like he’s going to actually burst with pride.

The pin guy is hysterical.

He’s got his phone out.

He’s probably texting Ruby. Emma’s sure he’s texting Ruby. It’s that kind of day. These people probably all have a group text where they refer to pitchers by their first names.

“Don’t you think he looks handsome with his haircut?” Mary Margaret continues. “I was worried we were going to have some kind of Samson and Delilah situation, but Jake’s been even better this year than I could have hoped and, oof, that fastball is…”

She drifts off, which is probably for the best because Emma’s mouth is starting to go dry. She can’t remember the last time she blinked.

“Jake,” Killian echoes, and Mary Margaret shrugs again. She turns back towards the field, leaping out of her chair when the people around start yelling a very involved cheer that also includes hand movements and Emma hopes it isn’t possible for her eyes to actually fall out of her head.

She feels like she’s dangerously close to that point.

They don’t actually say the cheers – “I don’t know them, David, I don’t want to just shout noise.” – but they’re more or less forced into several ridiculous hand motions and Emma can’t look at Killian because this is not a good date and not a good look and she’s been thinking all kinds of things that are way too early for wherever they are in this relatively young relationship.

A relationship should not have to pass a test run by people wearing so much orange.

But they all seem to be judging a bit and watching a bit more and, really, Emma should be ready for all of it, but she’s _not_ and Mary Margaret stands on her chair when the Mets take the field in the top of the first.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, head in her hand and heart thumping in her chest and deGrom’s fastball is actually pretty insane. There are more cheers about that. And someone whose job is to keep track of K’s.

It’s almost ok in between innings, the sun not too oppressive yet and Emma hasn’t thought about Shake Shack fries in, like, six solid minutes, so that seems like a step in the right direction, but then she hears it.

The jeers.

And boos.

And very loud curses.

Coming from Mary Margaret.

Emma’s neck cracks when she snaps to stare at Killian, his own eyes bugging slightly and Mary Margaret doesn’t stop. She also doesn’t seem to care that Bryce Harper plays in center field and, very likely, cannot hear a single word she is yelling at him.

She yells anyway – covering even more metaphorical bases when she insults everything from Harper’s hometown to his current batting average to his hairstyle. She spends a lot of time on Bryce Harper’s hair.

“It’s a thing,” David shrugs when Emma glances questioningly at him. “I mean...look at the guy’s hair. It’s just...it’s a lot.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“Don’t give me that, Emma. He’s way too overconfident.”   
  
“I mean, he’s been in the league forever, so that’s--”   
  
“--Nope,” David cuts in. “Don’t want to hear it. His hair is ugly and we hate him.”   
  
“Well, that’s totally reasonable,” Killian says, doing an admirable job of keeping his voice sincere. Emma’s lip is bleeding. “Do you also hate Mike Trout?”   
  
“What? Why would we care about Mike Trout?”   
  
Killian can’t quite keep his laugh in – the sound practically bursting out of him while his fingers trace patterns on the curve of Emma’s shoulder. “I honestly have no idea,” he admits. “It just always seem whenever people talk about Bryce Harper’s talent--”   
  
“Bryce Harper has no talent,” Mary Margaret yells, drawing more cheers and _that’s right, Snow_ and she actually turns to wave at the crowd. “Yeah, you hear that! Cares more about his haircare routine than his on-base!”   
  
“The hair thing really plays a big part in this, doesn't it?” Emma asks.

Killian makes a noise in the back of his throat, pressing a kiss to her temple and it’s almost comforting in a sea of orange and cursing and insults based on hair care products for men. “Usually Harper and Mike Trout are mentioned in similar conversations,” he gets out, rushing over the words before David can argue with him more.

“Yeah, but we don’t care about Mike Trout,” David says.

“I’m beginning to see that.”  
  
“He’s on the west coast.”

“You’re just saying facts now, David,” Emma accuses.

“You know he watches the Weather Channel all the time?”  
  
“What? Does that mean something?”   
  
“Who’s threatened by a guy who watches the Weather Channel?”   
  
“You realize you sound like an absolutely insane person right now, right?” Killian asks. He waves down a beer salesman without asking Emma if she actually wants anything and she appreciates it. She doesn’t even care how much it costs.

She doesn’t pay for it.

“I’m being honest,” David asserts. “Mike Trout watches the Weather Channel and plays in the AL. I don’t care about him.”

“Right, well, that’s insane and fair enough, I guess.”  
  
David nods once, like that’s that, which it kind of is because Emma doesn’t know any other facts about Mike Trout except the fact that he also married his high school sweetheart much like the two _insane_ people next to her, but she’s not sure if that’s in her best interest to mention either.

It doesn’t make any difference because Harper makes a diving catch in left center and Mary Margaret is far too busy cursing him to several different underworld to care about anything except what level of hell is reserved for fraud because, as she claims, Harper is _frauding his talent_ in front of all these people.

“I’m not sure that even makes sense,” Killian whispers, and Emma tries to shush him without making it obvious.

“In case you haven’t noticed, none of this makes any sense.”  
  
“You want more beer?”   
  
“I thought you’d never ask.”

She and Killian drink themselves into something that’s almost resembling comfort by the time they get to the bottom of the fifth and they’ve started keeping a tally of how many times _Meet the Mets_ gets blasted over the sound system.

Harper doesn’t make anymore diving catches and deGrom’s fastball deserves a special section in every major New York newspaper, but the Mets also don’t score and the entire left field groans in unison when a guy gets caught in the rundown between first and second.

“What the hell was he doing off the base?” Mary Margaret demands, staring like any of them might be personally responsible for this. “I wish we could hear what Keith was saying on the broadcast. I bet he’d agree with me.”

“Goodwin’s an idiot, babe,” David says. He’s trying to get her to sit down. It’s not working. “He’s been sending guys like that all season and it never ends well.”  
  
“We need to get some more speed at the deadline,” Leroy whines. “This is embarrassing.”   
  
“They’re not going to get anything at the deadline,” Mary Margaret hisses. “We’ve got to sell so we can get some prospects and keep building. God, remember when we were 10-1?”   
  
There’s a wistful _those were the days_ sound that moves across the crowd and Emma’s eyes keep darting towards Killian’s. “Who do you think Goodwin is?” he asks softly.   
  
“The first base coach.”   
  
“Did you honestly know that?”   
  
“Context clues.”   
  
“You’re a genius, Swan.”

She beams, something fluttering in the pit of her stomach that might be butterflies or just generic hunger and she’s started thinking about Shake Shack again. But she’s also kind of worried about what will happen if she tries to leave the seats and there’s a noise around them that sounds like several different explosions.

“Oh my God,” Killian mumbles, gaze landing just above Emma’s right shoulder and she has to twist to see what he’s staring at. She’s never seen that look on his face, not quite _fear_ , but something that looks almost like concern and it takes one gasp, two seconds, and three waves from Mr. Met to Mary Margaret to realize that Killian Jones does not like mascots.

“You’re kidding me,” Emma says. She twists back around to find Killian staring at his shoes and Mr. Met is trying to get towards them, Mary Margaret back on her seat and that has to be against the rules.

Emma’s quickly realizing Mary Margaret has her own set of rules at Citi Field.

“Don’t talk, Swan,” Killian mutters. “You’ll draw him over here. Those things feed on fear.”  
  
“I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think he’s coming over here because of your fear.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Look.”   
  
Killian glances up, eyes going wide when he realizes Mr. _goddamn_ Met is approaching them and he really is kind of freaky. His head is totally disproportionate to his body and it’s a baseball and his eyes look kind of dead.

“Of course she’s friends with the fucking mascot,” Killian hisses, earning a glare from David.

“He was at our wedding,” David explains. Mary Margaret can’t. She’s far too busy talking to the mascot. _The mascot._ Emma presses her hand over her mouth. Her laugh is far too loud anyway.

“And David argued about that for weeks,” Mary Margaret adds. She’s still got an arm around Mr. Met – another mascot moving towards them and Killian tenses next to Emma.

It’s the absolute disaster she was convinced it would be.

She’s willing to walk back to the city at this point.

“I came around though,” David counters. “And it was kind of cool with the photos.”  
  
“Did you take photos here?” Emma asks, not sure why she’s prolonging the conversation when she’s fairly positive Killian’s evolved into completely terrified of the domestic unit that is Mr. and Mrs. Met.

Their heads are, collectively, so off-putting.

“Wedding photos,” Mary Margaret answers. “But we took our engagement photos in front of Shea before they tore it down.”  
  
There are more murmurings from the crowd, something that sounds like _god rest its soul_ coming from the pin guy and Emma stands up so quickly her knees nearly buckle under her own weight. “C’mon,” she says, holding her hand out for Killian. He stares at it like he’s surprised to find it there, but it only takes another moment for his fingers to wrap around hers and his smile is almost disarming.

She’s thinking things again.

Things that also include Shake Shack.

“You want cheese fries, don’t you?” Killian asks, and Emma tries not to actually swoon. She really does. Mr. Met makes a kissing noise.

She’s going to get arrested for punching Mr. Met.

“Yeah, I figured,” Killian continues. Emma briefly wonders if there are magnets in her shoulders, but realizes even quicker that it doesn’t matter because his arm feels very good there and Mary Margaret almost looks like _Mary Margaret_ when she takes in the scene in front of her. “We’ll be right back.”   
  
They weave their way out of the aisle, and it isn’t until after they’ve ordered at Shake Shack that Killian actually says anything. “You ok, love?” he asks, grabbing a few packets of ketchup from the dispenser next to the register.

Emma nods, but it feels like a lie and the worry is back and the want is even stronger and they absolutely can’t have this conversation when everything smells like cheeseburgers.

And certainly not while they’re wearing orange.

Important conversations shouldn’t involve orange.

“You want to try again?” Killian presses. “Or you want me to try and guess? I’m feeling pretty good after my cheese fries victory.”  
  
Emma laughs, some of her muscles loosening. The smile on her face is easy. It has been for months. She doesn’t want this insanity to change that. She’s pretty positive it won’t.

God, she hopes not.

“I’m not kidding about the guessing,” Killian continues, nodding in thanks to a worker behind the counter when their food shows up.

“You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“I will.”   
  
“I know.”   
  
“But?”   
  
“How do you know there’s a but?”   
  
“Swan, we’ve been over this. The thing. With your face.”   
  
“It really sounds like an insult.”   
  
“Ah, it’s not,” he disagrees. “You want to grab a couple straws?” Emma nods, momentarily taken aback by the sudden shift to disposable drinking materials, but she turns and Killian’s suddenly in her space again and his lips fit very well against hers.  Maybe she’s going insane from lack of cheese fries. “I’m a very big fan of your face, Swan,” he mutters, eyebrows doing something _absurd_ when she actually giggles. They’re going to miss the entire seventh inning. “I’d be willing to defend your face in front of Bryce Harper.”   
  
“I doubt Bryce Harper’s all that concerned with my face, honestly.”   
  
“His loss."  
  
She giggles again, in full-swoon mode and Killian’s eyebrows could probably clear the right field wall with ease. “I appreciate the offers of defense,” Emma says, resting her hands on his chest again. “I just...this is a lot and I knew Mary Margaret was nuts about this team, but I’ve never seen her at an actual game and I think David’s humming the tune to Dominic the Donkey under his breath.”   
  
“That’s Luna Mezzo Mare. It’s the same rhythm or beat or whatever.”   
  
“Why do you know that?”   
  
Killian grins, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth. It smells so much like cheeseburgers. They haven’t really moved. Emma kind of wants whatever frozen sangria the booth next to them is touting. “I know things,” he says, rocking towards her and those magnets must be powerful.

“That so?”  
  
“Do you think I don’t?”   
  
“That was a weird contradiction in the same sentence,” Emma says. “But uh...no, the opposite in fact. I was just worried. And you’ve got some deep-rooted fear of mascots I didn’t know about.”   
  
“To be fair, I didn’t realize the mascots would be joining us for the game. That should have been mentioned. Did you know about the wedding thing?”   
  
Emma shakes her head. “I guess it’s a day for learning new facts.”   
  
“Right,” Killian mutters, the look on his face shifting and they’ve apparently reached the _serious_ portion of this conversation. “You don’t have to...you’re not going to scare me off, Emma. This is, I mean, it’s crazy and Mary Margaret is super intimidating, but it’s not…”

He takes a deep breath, shifting the tray of food he’s still inexplicably holding. Emma tries not to blink. She really wants sangria. And hopes the fries don’t cold too quickly.

That’d probably make them suck.

That seems unfair.

“Mary Margaret’s questionable fandom aside,” Killian says. “This has been good and fun, even.”  
  
“Except for the mascots.”   
  
“I’m counting on you to defend my honor against Mr. Met.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
It’s a ridiculous question – another question _within_ the question, but it’s been that kind of day and Emma’s a little worried she’s dehydrated. Killian doesn’t miss a beat, nodding quickly and emphatically and it’s so _stupid_ attractive, Emma forgets how much she detests the color orange.

“I like you,” she says. He blinks. She smiles. “Like... a lot. And I didn’t really want to and didn’t really believe that that was an option, but here we are and Mary Margaret’s shouting about parakeets and Daryl Strawberry and I just want this to be...good.”

She shrugs, a decidedly lame move that’s kind of disappointing when she’s just bared as much soul as she’s convinced she’s got, but Killian’s smile threatens to take up most of his face and it’s all Emma sees before he’s kissing her.

It is a miracle they don’t drop the cheese fries.

They might miss the end of the game standing there, a fact Emma wouldn’t argue when Killian’s tongue finds her lower lip, but someone shouts at them and someone else whistles and she dimly hears _save it for the kiss cam_ which might not actually be an insult.

Her breathing isn’t quite regular when they pull apart, bits of pink on Killian’s cheeks and the tips of his ears and the cheer from the stands is impossibly loud when, apparently, the Mets get a hit

“Better than good, Swan,” Killian promises. “I’m not going anywhere. Even if Mary Margaret actually jumps on the field to tackle Harper.”  
  
“Would you have to arrest her for that?”   
  
“Out of my jurisdiction.”   
  
“Ah, right.”   
  
He kisses her again or she kisses him again. It doesn’t matter, but the Mets are winning by the time they get back to their seats and Mr. Met is gone. Mary Margaret is personally offended when the guy picked to answer the trivia questions in the eight gets one question wrong.

“Johan Santana’s hitter was obviously in 2012,” she says, at least eight times while David nodded next to her.

“Obviously,” Emma repeats. “God forbid it was actually 2013.”  
  
“It’s the only no-hitter we’ve ever had!”   
  
“So the trivia person said.”   
  
“This is why they should talk to people before they put them up on the board. That poor guy was just going to embarrass himself.”   
  
“Wait, wait, wait, let me get this straight. You’re worried about how that guy feels after answering the question wrong? Not that he got it wrong?”   
  
“Obviously.”

Emma’s shoulders shake when she laughs and, that time, when Harper gets up to bat in the top of the ninth both she and Killian join in on the boos. She’s not ready for hair-based insults yet, but she supposes there’s a lot of season left.

And a lot of...everything left.

But that feels like another absurd notion while she’s wearing orange.

The Mets win.

It is, by all accounts of the 7-Line Army, a modern-day miracle. They’ve been losing games on a record pace at home and they didn’t win the series, but _it’s something_ – so several people promise Emma as they move towards the exits.

“And Jake pitched great again,” Mary Margaret says, the smile on her face as genuine as it’s been all afternoon. “Cy Young here we come.”

“No trade, no trade, no trade,” David whispers. “I’ll punch Wilpon in the face.”

“I really don’t think you can say that,” Emma mutters. “You are a police officer.”  
  
“Not my jurisdiction, doesn’t count.”   
  
“See,” Killian says. “Told you.”   
  
She scoffs, but she’s also kind of charmed by it and that’s been the theme for the day anyway. “Maybe we’re just good luck.”   
  
Killian beams, and Emma’s heart threatens to fly out of her chest and land somewhere near the US Open grounds and Mary Margaret makes them all pose for a photo in front of the home run apple. They don’t get on the train immediately, waiting for the crowds to disperse and end up staying in Queens for a little while longer because, as Mary Margaret points out, Austin Street isn’t that far away and there’s really good margaritas over there.

Emma never actually got the sangria, so she figures it’s an even deal.

And Killian looks even better when he gets out of the orange shirt, hours later with a smile still on his face and his fingers tracing out patterns on Emma’s side and she finally, _finally_ , gets the right words out later that summer.

She waits for the Subway Series in the Bronx though. They both look better wearing blue anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, quite possibly, the most absurd sports thing I have ever written, but I am regularly Mary Margaret when rooting for my teams and it is a gift for @dreadpirateemma who is ACTUALLY Mary Margaret when rooting for the Mets. Sorry if you guys are Nats fans or fans of Bryce Harper's hair. Also it's the last game of the Subway Series tonight so this was timely!
> 
> Come share your baseball feelings on Tumblr: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	19. Start Spreading the News

Her blood runs cold.

She’s never entirely understood that expression before, but in the moment Emma is certain there is actual ice sliding down her spine. It lands just above her hips and sits there until she’s certain she’s never been colder in her entire life and she’s only a little worried about the current state of her eyes.

And whatever Ruby is doing with her face.

“What’s happening with you, right now?” Ruby asks, and Mary Margaret looks genuinely concerned that Emma’s having several different medical emergencies. She might be. She’s still pretty positive blood isn’t actually supposed to be cold.

It’s a stupid metaphor.

Emma’s a living, breathing, human being. She’s not an amphibian. Amphibians have cold blood, right? Like...frogs? Something about frogs and tenth grade biology and she doesn’t remember anything about tenth grade biology.

She shivers.

And they’re still chanting his name.

“I think she’s having a complete breakdown,” Ruby mutters. Emma exhales, the force of it making her entire body sag forward and Mary Margaret clicks in her tongue in reproach. They’re starting to draw a few curious stares – Emma assumes that’s because all of her blood, frozen or otherwise, has completely drained from her face and she’s probably as white as the jersey in front her.

They’re very close to right field.

“No, no, it’s not that,” Mary Margaret whispers. It’s a god awful attempt at a whisper.

“Is she even breathing?” Belle asks. Her whisper is a little bit better. Emma still hears it perfectly though. She dimly remembers something about certain senses being stronger when other ones are failing or already failed and the tenses don’t matter because her brain can’t possibly be expected to process both high school science and English right now and she really needs him to turn the fuck around.

Everyone else turned around.

She didn’t realize at first. She kind of hates that she didn’t realize first. She feels bad that she didn’t realize at first.

Maybe that’s what the ice in her veins is actually about, but there had been something vaguely familiar about the guy in right field. A certain shift to his legs that was oddly normal and the way he rocked his head back and forth like he was keeping beat to a song only he could hear and he did that all the time in that house, what felt like a million years ago. It always got Emma to laugh and she still had a strong suspicion he’d done it entirely to get her to smile, but then he’d turned eighteen and she wasn’t old enough yet and there were no families, just people leaving and--

He turns around.

Emma thanks every single deity she can think of  that her knees don’t actually buckle and she can name quite a few because of him – he’d been questionably into Greek gods when they were teenagers and sitting on the steps on the back porch that one summer because it was cooler out there and sometimes she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.

He takes his hat off when the fans around them start to cheer louder, the _Kill-i-an_ that had been lingering in the air evolving into shouts and yells and something that might actually be people jumping up and down on the bleachers, but Emma assumes they call them _bleacher creatures_ for a reason and it’s all kind of worth it because Killian Jones smiles at section 203 of Yankee Stadium like it’s all he’s ever wanted.

Which, of course, it is.

He told her that on the back steps too.

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, licking her lips like she’s been standing in the desert for eight-hundred years. God, that’s another metaphor. Maybe. She’s running out of temperature-based jokes to make in her own head.

Maybe she is having a complete mental breakdown.

“How did we get these tickets?” Emma asks sharply, and he didn’t see her. That’s probably for the best. There’s a game to play. They’re not even out of the first inning yet. “And what the hell just happened?”  
  
“Uh, I think that’s the question we’re supposed to be asking you, Em,” Ruby says reasonably. That word has no meaning anymore. Those pinstripes look absurdly good on him.

Everything always looked absurdly good on him, but he was older and more worldly or something and he listened to Emma’s story like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted to hear and promised things he couldn’t and she’d believed them all.

And he’d left anyway.

He didn’t have a choice.

She knew that.

She still kind of hated that.

A lot.

“What was the name calling thing?” Emma demands. She’s still standing. The guy behind her is still yelling, but they’ve moved to left field and another hat salute and several people around them have very loud opinions on the current state of the Yankees starting pitching.

“Roll call?”  
  
“Is that what it’s called?”   
  
“Do you not know that?”   
  
Emma doesn't mean to growl. She doesn’t, honestly, but she’s lost control of all her mental faculties and she didn’t keep tabs on Killian’s career, per se. She’d stayed in that house for a few more months before they shipped her to a different state and a different house without steps. And she tried not to think about Killian Jones or the things he knew or the quiet dreams he’d heard whispered in the middle of the night, but her mind could never quite forget about it either, like there was some tiny section of _her_ that was just _him_ and Emma wasn’t sure that made sense, but it was the best explanation she could ever come up with.

So she didn’t _look_ for the stats, but they were impossible to miss.

He was a story in the way movies were made – a system kid who defied several different types of odds, or so the headlines claimed, and earned a roster spot in the minors when he refused to leave an open tryout and, eventually, got a pretty good signing bonus.

Or so the stories claimed.

And Emma didn’t _look_ for the stories, but she was a person and ESPN was a thing and Killian Jones breezed through the minors with a speed that made most baseball players look like Little Leaguers.

Or so the stories claimed.

She lost track a few years ago, until she was in Tampa and there were more headlines and more stories and her breath had caught in her throat when her eyes landed on _hit_ and _injury_ and _All-Star career threatened_. Emma didn’t see anymore stories after that, but she’d been staging her own cross-country career and Boston felt like home, a spot in the police department there, until she realized she was just as lonely as ever and David promised there was _a spot_ for her in New York.

She settled. She put down roots. She hung frames on her apartment walls and let Mary Margaret introduce her to Ruby and Belle and agreed to go to Yankee Stadium for a Saturday afternoon game.

And Killian Jones was playing goddamn right field.

“Em,” Ruby snaps, jerking her out of memories and making Emma suddenly aware of how straight her knees are. “You can sit down now, y’know?”  
  
Emma nods dumbly, eyes not leaving Killian’s back and she tries to keep her breathing even. That’s more difficult than usual when she realizes the number there. Twenty-two.

It’s her birthday.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Emma mumbles, sinking onto the bench underneath her. It’s not very forgiving material.

She’s suddenly sweating far too much.

She wishes her body would pick a temperature and stick with it.

Mary Margaret looks distraught. “Did you eat anything before you got here?  
  
“It’s not food poisoning, Mary Margaret.”

“That’s not an answer to my question. And did you really not know what roll call is? That’s a very famous Yankees thing.”  
  
Emma squeezes her eyes closed. She feels like she’s just run the New York marathon forty-seven times. Consecutively. After she broke both her legs while crossing the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.

He always wanted to play for the Yankees.

She can’t breathe.

“When did that happen?” Emma yells, voice lacking any sort of control. She assumes the people around her would probably turn that into a pitching pun.

Ruby furrows her eyebrows. “You’re speaking in tongues. You really sure you’re not food poisoned? I bet we could get a ton of money if we sue the Stadium and maybe the city and--”

“--You couldn’t sue the city,” Belle argues. “It’s private property.”  
  
“But maybe the restaurant? Where’d you get food from, Em? Bareburger? Oh man, let’s take down Bareburger! That’d, like, make my whole summer.”   
  
“You have something against Bareburger specifically?” Mary Margaret asks. Emma’s head is spinning.

“Way too high and mighty,” Ruby answers. “They’re making cheeseburgers and like...nine bucks for fries, c’mon, that’s insane. Let’s sue ‘em, Em. That’ll be fun.”  
  
“I am not poisoned,” Emma shouts, leaping up again and her exclamation times up almost perfectly with the crack of bat on ball. Killian makes contact straight up the infield, splitting the second baseman and the shortstop and Emma’s eyes do that bugging, watering thing again while her mouth hangs open and she nearly knocked over the popcorn the guy next to her is holding. That’s what she got for agreeing to be on the end of the group.

Ruby holds up her hands in mock surrender, Killian rounding first, but the relay is good and Emma assumes it would just be more comfortable if her brain actually melted out of her ears at this point “So, uh, no the legal action, right?” Ruby asks, working another tongue click out of Mary Margaret and a strangled sound out of Emma.

“I promise I am not suffering from any food poisoning. Just like…”  
  
“A complete and utter mental breakdown?”   
  
“That sounds so dramatic.”   
  
“You did almost take out the popcorn though,” Mary Margaret shrugs, tugging on Emma’s shirt to try to get her to sit down and she can’t. Not when Killian is on first base and those pinstripes are really _something_ and her whole soul does something absurd because he’s wearing high socks.

“Of course he is,” Emma mumbles, mostly to herself, but Ruby might actually be a wolf because she hears over the din of the crowd and the quiet cursing of the popcorn guy. “Oh my God,” Emma groans. “I will buy you more popcorn if I messed it up for you.”  
  
The popcorn guy doesn’t answer.

“Em,” Ruby drawls. She must be a mind-reading wolf. “Why are you muttering under your breath about Killian Jones’ uniform?”  
  
“I’m not.”   
  
“You want to try that again, because like...I heard you. So did Belle. So did Mary Margaret. Ask Mary Margaret. She’s incapable of lying.”   
  
Emma huffs, but she’s not really frustrated. She’s not capable of anymore emotions. Frustration will have to wait the second time through the lineup. Or something.

Killian steals second.

So, Emma’s probably just going to die right there in right field.

“How did we get these tickets?” she asks, voice muffled when her head falls into her hands. She’s avoiding Ruby’s undoubtedly judgmental gaze.

Mary Margaret pats her on the bat. “David knows people on the force who work security here. You do too, actually.”  
  
“Do I?”   
  
“You do. You met Graham a couple weeks ago when we had that thing in the apartment. Why? How did you think we got the tickets?”   
  
“I honestly had no idea,” Emma admits, lifting her head up because she’s an adult and she was right about Ruby. “So, uh...no one actually knows Killian Jones?”

Ruby blinks. And her jaw drops so quickly Emma wonders how there isn’t a sound effect involved, Belle's quiet gasp of confusion not really all that quiet. Mary Margaret’s hand stills.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret says slowly. “What is going on with you? Honestly.”  
  
“Do you know Killian Jones?” Ruby shouts. The popcorn guy moves.

Emma winces, throwing her head back towards a perfectly blue sky and her mind needs to _stop_ because she keeps letting it remember things and remind her of things and Killian gets stranded at second base.

“When did he get to New York?” Emma asks, as softly as she possibly can. It doesn't matter. Ruby squeals and Mary Margaret makes a noise that is not entirely human and popcorn guy starts screaming _this lady knows Jones_ to anyone who will listen.

The entire section wants to listen, apparently.

Ruby has to lean around Mary Margaret to grab Emma’s hand, but she does it anyway, a tight grip and something almost pleading in her gaze. “Trade deadline,” she mutters. “That’s...it was all over the tabs, Em, how did you not see that?”  
  
“I don’t know. I was moving and getting used to the precinct. I have a life, Rubes! I was...it’s not like I’ve been looking for headlines of him in the last twelve years--”   
  
“--You’ve known Killian Jones for twelve years?!”   
  
“No, no, no, that’s not what it is at all. I bet he doesn’t even remember me.”

The lie feels heavy on her tongue, like it’s competing with ice for the _worst thing in the world_ and Emma’s getting-crazier-by-the-moment mind starts making _sinker_ jokes. Maybe she’ll sue Bareburger just to distract her for the next eight innings.

Well, seven and a half if this goes the way it should.

“You want to start at the beginning?” Mary Margaret asks, and Emma resists the urge to say no.

She tells them.

The whole goddamn story.

Popcorn guy eavesdrops.

The entirety of section 203 eavesdrops. Emma kind of feels like she’s holding court in right field, detailing the whole depressing backstory and drifting apart and system kids never really stay in touch because they can’t, but he’s standing _right there_ and there has to be a reason they’ve both ended up in New York at the same time after all this time.

It feels a little like fate and kind of romantic, but Killian Jones always wanted to play for the Yankees and Emma assumes sports are allowed to be a bit cliché every now and then.

“Well, we’ve got to do something about this then,” Ruby announces, as soon as Emma finishes the story and the section cheers.

Emma’s mouth has gone dry. She’s not sure if it’s because of the story or the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach at what _doing something_ means.

She’s circled back around to the ice metaphor.

“Here, here,” popcorn guy yells. They’re friends now. Or something. Mary Margaret’s introduced herself to him.

“We really don’t have to do anything,” Emma says, shaking her head. “Really, I bet he doesn’t remember me at all and--”

“--Emma,” Mary Margaret chasties. “What’s that number?”

The section gasps. Collectively. It’s absurd. This is totally going to end up on ESPN.

“Is the number something?” Belle asks excitedly, waving both her hands when Ruby laughs at her. “Aw, c’mon, this is romantic. If the number is something then it’s got to be...something, right?”

“Eloquent, babe,” Ruby grins.

Mary Margaret lifts her eyebrows. Emma sighs. “You already know,” she mumbles, but it’s like trying to avoid the sun rising or roll call from the bleacher creatures and the Yankees just scored. That’s probably a sign. She takes a deep breath. “That’s my birthday.”

Section 203 explodes.

Loudly.

The Orioles right fielder actually turns around to stare at them in confusion.

“Watch the goddamn game,” popcorn guy yells, leaning over the wall with enough disdain radiating off him that Emma’s almost impressed and slightly concerned she’s going to have to arrest this guy at some point.

She hopes not. She kind of likes popcorn guy now.

“So, we’re totally going to do something about this, right?” Ruby asks, glancing around like she’s looking for permission. “What can we do?”

There are murmurings and mumbles and suggestions that include _jumping over the fence_ , but Emma puts a quick stop to all that and Mary Margaret actually has a very good disciplinary face. And, really, the answer is almost so obvious that Emma’s surprised someone didn’t think of it immediately.

“We get loud,” Belle says simply.

It takes them a few innings – they have to switch up the cheer from roll call because, as Emma learns, _it’s sacrilege to repeat that when it’s not the first inning_ – and there is, after all, a game to play. Killian doesn’t turn around.

He catches a pop fly in the top of the seventh, tossing the ball into a different section, but it’s enough to get some of his attention and everyone is standing on the bleachers. There’s jumping and shouting and waving hands and security is doing an admirable job of getting them to act like normal fans, but Ruby keeps shouting _there’s romance on the line_ and that one guy looks a little intimidated by her.

It’s definitely the face thing.

“Jones! Jones! Jones,” Ruby cries, and Mary Margaret is just screaming nonsense and popcorn guy is actually throwing popcorn and Killian turns around.

Again.   
  
Or finally.

Whatever.

Emma’s not breathing.

He looks confused, which, really is fair, because he’s got to get back to the dugout and he’s on deck and they’re supposed to be honoring America, but his head snaps up at the sound of his own name and it’s like everything freezes for a moment.

The ice thing is really becoming too much, honestly.

It takes, exactly, three shouts, one incredibly unsteady breath and two blinks for him to see Emma. His mouth drops.

Ruby cackles.

And Emma’s not really sure what she does – possibly sustains permanent brain damage when it feels like her mind actually short-circuits – but her arm jerks slightly and she might try to wave and he looks older than she remembers and exactly the same as she remembers and she can see his shoulders shift when he exhales.

She can’t hear him, but she’s gotten pretty good at reading lips after her time in the Academy and her heart practically leaps out of her chest when she realizes he’s breathed out _Swan_ , right there on the grass of Yankee Stadium with God Bless America playing in the background.

“That’s the single most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Ruby mutters, a quiet reprimand from Belle and Mary Margaret, but Mary Margaret is also crying, so the threat lacks any real bite.

The section is still shouting, arms moving to point at Emma like Killian’s not staring straight through her soul or something equally absurd and she does her best not to blink too much. That’s proving more difficult than she expected though, mostly because her vision is starting to blur and she keeps licking her lips.

He jogs closer to the warning track, a move that must be completely against the rules and Ruby mumbles something about _hot takes_ and _sports morning shows_ that Emma doesn’t entirely understand. There’s still a good amount of space between them, but Emma’s not entirely concerned with the wall pressing into her stomach when she leans forward on instinct.

“Swan?” he repeats, slightly stunned and a little overwhelmed and Emma knows the feeling. She nods. “What are you...what are you doing here?”

“Watching a baseball game.”  
  
“Oh my God, Emma,” Ruby groans. The rest of the section isn’t impressed either.

Killian shakes his head, blinking almost hyperactivity and someone is screaming for him from the dugout. “I think you have to go hit,” Emma says. It’s the dumbest thing she’s ever said.

Ever.

Bar none.

The bar is pressing into her pancreas.

Killian laughs, soft and shaky and still overwhelmed, but he nods to and she’s not entirely sure how the MLB fine system works, but she assumes he’s going to get charged a fairly big one for this. People are filming them. There are phones everywhere.

“Short right field porch in Yankee Stadium,” he mumbles, half a smile that’s bordering very close to a smirk. He’s gotten better at that since he was eighteen.

“I think you’re guaranteeing me a home run,” Emma points out.

“Yes. Make sure you catch it, ok?”

She nods. Her heart is in tatters. It’s kind of nice.

Emma does not, in fact, catch it. He hits it over the bullpen, which is even farther than right field, but Emma only knows that because half a dozen people complain about it and then are immediately reprimanded for complaining about a home run that has given the Yankees an even bigger lead.

And there’s never really a threat to the lead, but Emma’s suddenly hyper-aware of every shift in the Earth’s atmosphere, blinking quickly because her eyes refuse leave Killian when he comes back into the field and he keeps glancing over his shoulder.

Like he’s nervous she’s going to suddenly disappear.

She doesn’t and she knows she doesn’t imagine the way his eyes scan the crowd to find her as soon as the Yankees closer strikes out the final Baltimore batter.

“Don’t leave,” he yells, and Emma tilts her head in confusion.

“What?”

“Don’t leave!”  
  
“Where the hell are we supposed to go?”   
  
He laughs again, which is honestly fair because Emma sounds a little like she’s sixteen, but she also feels a lot like she’s sixteen and she left out a few key moments in the story. The kissing moments. There were kissing moments.

Not a lot, and certainly not enough that she would consider herself still hung up on Killian Jones, but she remembers them and swears she can feel them all over again in right field and she can’t believe how good he looks in pinstripes.

It’s absurd.

“Just…” Killian continues, head on a swivel because there are post-game obligations and his fellow outfielders are staring at him like he’s insane. “Just don’t go anywhere, ok?”  
  
“We’ll make sure she doesn’t,” Mary Margaret answers.

“Pinky swear,” Ruby adds. “Hey, you got an extra ball down there, though? Like payment in kind for making this happen for you?”  
  
Killian chuckles, waving down a ball boy and Ruby flashes a grin when he tosses it into the stands. “Make sure you don’t leave and I’ll sign it,” he promises.

“Can you do that?”  
  
“I’m not sure I can do any of the things I’ve done in the last few innings, but here we are.” His eyes dart towards Emma and she bites her lip, the flush in her cheeks almost too warm. “Isn’t that right, Swan?”   
  
She ignores Mary Margaret’s strangled _he’s got a nickname for you,_  nodding despite the tension in her neck muscles. “Something like that,” she says. “You better go before I’ve got to arrest you for breach of contract.”

He looks a little stunned. It’s a good look, honestly. But every look was always a good look and the outfielders are pulling him back to the infield and the dugout and post-game obligations and it takes approximately five minutes for someone in a Yankees polo to find them.

“Ms. Swan?” she asks, all red hair and almost obvious enthusiasm and Emma’s going to strain several neck muscles. “If you’d like to follow me, Mr. Jones has made some arrangements so you’re not kicked out of the Stadium.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“This way.”

Emma’s jaw falls again, but she doesn’t really want to leave and Ruby keeps mumbling under her breath and Mary Margaret is, like, very obviously swooning and Belle hums knowingly, an understanding look on her face when she presses lightly on Emma’s shoulder.

“I think it’s a good idea,” she says. Emma lifts her eyebrows in challenge. “And I know you do too, or you would have booked it out of here faster than we could have stopped you.”

“She’s got a point,” Mary Margaret agrees.

“M’s,” Emma balks.

“Birthday number. And whatever your face has been doing for the last three hours. Like you’re falling back into a memory and enjoying it.”  
  
“Or, like, a really pleasant dream,” Ruby amends. “With cute baseball boys.”   
  
The redhead _tuts_ impatiently from the top of the stairs and Emma is curious and, possibly, a little emotional and she finds herself saying ok before she can even begin to come up with any reasons not to. She’s not sure there are any.

His hair is still a little damp when he finds them, nearly forty-five minutes later, sitting in an office that may be Ariel’s – the redhead’s name was Ariel and she offered them more than a dozen Stadium food options, but Emma’s stomach is in knots and she really can’t breathe at all when Killian meets her gaze again.

“Swan,” he says again, that same note of wonder in his voice that Emma swears she can feel in her core. She keeps biting her lip. It’s a tell. She knows it. He knows it. Ariel probably knows it.

Ruby coughs pointedly.

“Right, right,” she says. There’s a fairly pitiful effort to keep the laughter out of her voice, but Emma assumes it’s better than nothing. Killian doesn’t look away from her. “So, uh, thanks for the rom-com experience, Jones. But, well--”  
  
“--If you do something stupid with Emma, I’ll get my police detective husband to arrest you,” Mary Margaret says. There’s no laughter in her voice.

Killian blanches.

“Oh my God, Mary Margaret,” Emma groans. Mary Margaret doesn’t pull her gaze from Killian, though, a challenge in the look and it kind of feels like another home run when he smiles in response.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says. There’s no way to doubt he means it. Emma’s heart knits itself back together and then promptly explodes again.

It really feels strangely nice.

“Good,” Mary Margaret nods. “Because I wasn’t kidding.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m getting that.”

“Alright, well, we should probably get going then,” Belle mumbles. “We’ll, uh...Em, just let us know when you get home, ok?”

Emma nods, mostly because she has to, and partially because she can’t find her voice and she wonders if anyone made a joke about Killian’s eyes and pinstripe blue. They should have. If they didn’t. It’s just like...right there.

It takes a moment for her friends to shuffle out, Ariel smiling at them while she closes the door behind her and suddenly Emma is alone with Killian Jones for the first time since she was sixteen and he told her he was leaving.

“I’m sorry this was so weird, it’s--”  
  
“--It’s so good to see you, Swan.”

She snaps her jaw shut when she realizes they’re talking over each other, splotches of color on Killian’s cheeks that are almost as attractive as the high sock thing. Maybe he could wear that all the time. That’d be weird.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles.

“No, no, you go ahead, Swan, it’s--”  
  
“--I mean, you’re the professional baseball player, that should--”

He scoffs when they do it again, nerves and anxiety and something that feels like the previously discussed slightly romantic cliché. And Emma’s not entirely positive what happens when he reaches behind his ear to tug on the hair there and mumbles something she’s fairly certain she hears, but isn’t sure she actually processes.

“What?” Killian smirks. “Aw, c’mon,” Emma sighs, but the expression only settles more on his face and he knows he’s winning. Again.

“Something about big guns and pulling them out or something.”  
  
“I’m not sure that makes sense in this conversation.”   
  
“I’m honestly willing to risk it,” Killian says, and it sounds like another promise and another string of words that have way more meaning than a decade apart should allow. “I said,” he continues, stepping into her space cautiously and Emma swears she can feel every inch of him even with the minimal bit of air between them. “That I looked for you. Or tried at least. After.”

She exhales, tongue between her lips and his eyes fall to her mouth. That’s not fair either. “How?” she whispers.

“Badly, since it didn’t really work.”  
  
Emma laughs, another instinctual sound that he’d always been pretty good at making happen and Killian looks like he just won several World Series three days after the trade deadline. “That’s not what I meant at all,” she says, rocking forward and fisting her hands at her side so she doesn’t actually reach out and grab him.

He’s still wearing team-branded clothing, a t-shirt and gym shorts and the whole thing is just painfully _unfair_ and Emma wonders if she always missed him this much or only realized it in that moment. She’s rather loathe to admit it’s absolutely the first one.

“I know it’s not,” Killian grins. “But, uh...my options were kind of limited and they said you didn’t stay at the house for long--”  
  
“--Sent to Minnesota, like, three months after you left.”   
  
“I’m so sorry, Swan.”   
  
“That’s not your fault,” Emma says, but that sentence feels off too and Killian had always been very good at hearing her deflections for exactly that. “Did you...did you stop, is that what happened?”   
  
He’s shaking his head before she can even finish the question, a look of pure terror on his face, as if even the thought is scandalizing. “No, nothing like that. At least not on purpose.”   
  
She narrows her eyes in confusion, but that lasts as long as it takes to move close enough that their feet are nearly touching and he’s impossibly solid when her hands land on his chest. “When you got hurt,” Emma mutters.

“You know about that?”  
  
“I know some things and like...I maybe looked at some things too.”   
  
Killian leans back, a twist of eyebrows and flash of something that might be joy. “Were you looking me up, Swan?”   
  
“You do not get to be like that when you just admitted to quasi-stalking me for the last twelve years.”   
  
“That’s not what I said at all.”

“What it sounded like.”  
  
“You always liked to add your own definitions to things, didn’t you?”   
  
Emma scowls, but he’s right and there’s no point in arguing when her fingers are clutching at Yankees apparel like several different anchors. “I didn’t know you were in New York.”   
  
“I didn’t know you were in New York.”   
  
“That’s only a few weeks old.”   
  
“Strange, me too.”   
  
She groans, earning another smirk that makes her toes curl and her fingers grip a bit tighter – trying to make sure this is real and honest and his eyes are as sharp as she always remembered them even when she didn’t want to remember them. “Is it a good deal?” Emma asks. “Good money?”   
  
“Playing here was never really about the money.”   
  
“That’s not an answer.”

Killian hums, and for one crazy moment Emma is _positive_ he’s going to kiss her. Or the other way around. He leans forward and she presses on her toes and his hand must be eight-thousand degrees because it practically sears through her when it lands on her hip.

He doesn’t.

Because it’s been years and they both just happen to be in New York, but they both just happened to be in that house twelve years before and it was always far too easy to trust him.

“Several million,” he says. “Five years with an option.”  
  
“Sounds like a good deal.”   
  
“That’s because it is. I have a very intense agent.”   
  
Emma makes a noise, an acknowledgement that’s mostly just to distract her from the still-present knots in her stomach. “I took a job with the NYPD,” she says suddenly, rushing over the words and Killian leans back to look at her. “So, like...you know the plan is kind of to be here for awhile. A career-type of thing.”   
  
“Thing,” Killian echoes, and they’re going in circles. It might be better if they start making out in Ariel’s office.

“That’s the plan.”  
  
“Roots, then.”   
  
‘Some,” Emma wavers. “Maybe not a redwood or anything, but you know...face of the franchise or something.”   
  
“I think we’re getting our metaphors confused, love.”

She nearly bites her tongue in half at the endearment, several internal organs undoubtedly shutting down because no one’s called her that in years and no one should have called her that when she was sixteen, but Killian Jones was never just _somebody_ and he thought he was far too charming for his own good when he was a teenager.

It seems to hit him, suddenly, what he’s said, eyes going wide and mouth making a quiet _pop_ when his lips snap apart. “Swan,” he starts, and she presses her palms firmer against his shirt. “This is insane, isn’t it?”

Emma nods. “Absolutely. I’m going to feel really bad if you get in trouble for that seventh inning stretch thing.”  
  
“Oh, I’m definitely going to get in trouble for that, but is it sentimental to tell you that it was worth it?”

“Like, absurdly sentimental.”  
  
“Good. It was worth it.”   
  
Emma beams and the knots loosen slightly because there are butterflies there instead and the words seem to fly out of her mouth. “Do you want to get some coffee or something?”

“I’d love to.”

He’s still got post-game obligations and explanations to make because he really is going to get in trouble for the seventh-inning stretch thing, but the chairs in Ariel’s office are comfortable and Ariel herself is a pretty fascinating conversationalist.

“He wouldn’t take no for an answer,” she tells Emma. “Just kept patrolling the dugout and demanding someone figure out how to get the women in 203 to stick around after the game and I think Scarlet thought he was insane.”  
  
“Which one is Scarlet?”   
  
“The left fielder.”   
  
Emma nods – recent memories of exasperated expressions and confusion and she hopes there are several disasters in several other sports so they’re not the lead story on SportsCenter. That feels like wishful thinking.

“It was kind of nice though,” Ariel continues. “He’s been a whirlwind of excitement since he got here, all childhood dreams and coming back from that hand injury and--”

“--He always wanted to be a Yankee,” Emma interrupts. “So this was probably just more of that.”

Ariel’s smile widens. “Sure it was.”

They take a car back into the city, Killian rolling his eyes when Emma makes fun of _special athlete treatment_ and tell the driver to let them off on Amsterdam Ave, a string of restaurants and people and no one actually talks to them, but there are several second glances and wide eyes and enough camera snaps that Emma’s heart hammers against her ribs.

But they get coffee and his order hasn’t changed and he doesn’t let her pay.

“That’s antiquated,” Emma accuses. Killian shrugs.

“I’ve got all those millions now, Swan. Let me do this.”  
  
She doesn’t argue again.

And they keep walking, and drinking coffee and there’s still a little humidity in the air, something heavy and meaningful that Emma refuses to acknowledge because the conversation is that already. She tells him how shitty Minnesota was and how alone she was and what it mean to meet Mary Margaret when she finally made it to college, and how she and David just kind of adopted her. He tells her about losing his brother, the one who couldn’t take care of him when he was young, but wanted to eventually, and never got the chance, and the injury that almost derailed his entire career and how much he wants this team to be _the_ team.

It lasts forever, blocks not meaning much as they keep wandering and buying pretzels from carts and Emma turns up her nose at hot dogs, but Killian just laughs and orders her a knish because he knows she’ll _like that more_. She does.

And they eventually find themselves in Chelsea and Emma’s apartment – a two-bedroom she shares with a woman named Elsa who, she is sure, is the second nicest person she’s ever met.

“Only because Mary Margaret is actually some kind of saint,” Emma explains, and Killian keeps laughing and smiling and she might be hoarding all of it.

“She did seem rather determined before.”  
  
“It’s that whole motherhood thing. She’ll just...pounce on you.”   
  
“I’m not going to do anything to warrant that,” Killian says, Emma’s eyes bugging at the feeling behind the words. Like another five-season, multi-million dollar contract. With a player option.

“Seems kind of like a veteran move.”  
  
He laughs again, easy and simple and this whole day has kind of evolved into that, which is also kind of nice. Emma has no idea where her keys are.

“Ah, I’m not sure that I’ve reached veteran status yet, love,” Killian says. “But, uh...I was a little worried you were going to throw the ball back at my head when you saw my number.”  
  
He winces when Emma doesn’t say anything immediately, shifting his weight between his heels and stuffing his hands in his pockets. They’d finished the coffee hours before.

“Why did you do that?” Emma asks.

“A million reasons, but mostly that, uh...I’d always wanted to be a Yankee, right?” Emma nods, only a little worried the question was rhetorical. Killian doesn’t seem to mind. “But, uh, no one knew that except you. And the number I’d had in St. Louis wasn’t available here. They’ve got so many retired numbers it’s absurd, but then twenty-two was there and it was like something in my brain just snapped. I’d never been able to find you, but I couldn’t really forget you and you knew and you’d always known and I thought maybe if you saw, then--”  
  
Emma doesn’t let him finish.

She reaches up, grabbing fabric and t-shirt and Killian gasps softly when she all but yanks him towards her, lips colliding with lips and twelve years of not being able to forget and he’s even better at this than he was before.

They might be, collectively, better at this. That’s a nice thought. A romantic thought. Emma would like to have several romantic thoughts about Killian Jones, New York Yankees right fielder.

They’re still kissing each other.

They don’t really stop.

They break apart, take a breath and come back together, over and over until Emma’s worried her lips are going to be bruised, but it takes whatever Killian does with his tongue to realize she absolutely doesn’t care and she’s certain if she makes some ten-day DL joke later, she’ll get him to laugh again. His fingers drift up her spine, tracing patterns and leaving metaphorical brands and her calves ache from standing on tiptoes for so long.

Emma doesn’t move.

She fits very well against his chest, the hand that’s not still moving wrapping around her hips instead and pulling her flush against hm and someone on the sidewalk actually whistles at them.

One of them laughs, foreheads resting against each other and smiles on their faces, even if they’re both a little out of breath.

“So the number thing wasn’t a total deal breaker then?” Killian asks softly, and Emma swats at his shoulder. He catches her around the wrist, brushing his lips over her knuckles and it’s absurd and romantic, but that’s the subhead to this whole story.

“A little stalkery, but in a nice kind of way,” she says.

“That’s the line I was trying to walk, for sure.”

“So, uh…”  
  
“So what do you think you’re doing after the next home game?”   
  
“When is that?”   
  
“Tomorrow.”

Emma’s laugh does not make any sense in a real-world situation, far too girlish and young and _all in_ already. She kisses him again.

“Was that the answer?” Killian asks. “Because it didn’t seem like--”  
  
“--Oh my God, you are needy. Yes, that was the answer. What did you have in mind, exactly?”

He grins. “Everything.”

It’s all a little chaotic after that, the whirlwind Ariel promised it was, but Emma isn’t sure she stops smiling or laughing and there are more day games and homestands and roadtrips that find her paying for the goddamn MLB app so she can get moment-to-moment updates sent to her phone. David makes fun of her mercilessly for that.

Emma usually flips him off.

Because it’s ridiculous and stressful and she’s not entirely aware what happens when Killian gets hit by a pitch in Boston. David promises she _loses her mind_ when he tells the story later, and Killian arches an eyebrow, another unspoken challenge that ends in more kissing and friends groaning loudly like they didn’t make all of this happen.

And when the Yankees play the Wild Card game in the Bronx, Emma is back in section 203, leading roll call and smiling when Killian turns, a tip of the hat and a wink that’s entirely hers and theirs and several collective pronouns that lead to cheers and shouts and they win.

They keep winning.

They sweep the first series and there are home runs and shouts and Emma’s crying on the road because _I really want you to be there, Swan_ is a string of words she’s not entirely capable of saying no to. Killian finds her in the crowd on the field after they win a different Series, _the_ Series, an arm around her waist and face buried in her neck and he might be crying, but that might be her and they won.

They won.

After they find their way back to each other.

“I love you,” Killian says, not the first time, but maybe more meaningful and Emma’s whole body aches from containing so much happiness.

“I love you too.”

And it’s improbable and cliché, but sports are better when they’re both of those things and Emma’s not even frustrated when they make SportsCenter again, twisted together with smiles on their face lips pressed together and the rest of their lives laid out at their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is entirely and solely for @distant-rose who is the love of my internet life and deserves the world and all the baseball fic. I'm going to write her more baseball fic soon, but in the meantime here is this. Everyone go tell Ro how fantastic she is. 
> 
> And come flail on Tumblr if you're down. Where I'm doing a fic giveaway!  
> http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	20. Staying the Night

“You’re looking a little smug, darling.”  
  
“Me?”   
  
Killian hums, nodding solemnly like it’s the most serious thing in the world and it’s not that it _isn’t_ , but double negatives are confusing and Emma’s far too comfortable to contemplate sentence structure. She’s got no idea what time it is anyway.

She’s not even sure if she brought her phone with her.

That’s a nice kind of thought – the certainty that things are as fine as they have been for the last few weeks and her phone is still blissfully silent. Or she assumes it has been. In the loft. Where she hasn’t been for most of the day.

Or most of the last few weeks.

Maybe she does look a little smug.

“Can I look smug when I’m not actually wearing any clothes?” Emma asks, silently congratulating herself for the audible hitch in Killian’s breath. His eyes widen and his brows move so quickly she’s all but certain they’ve actually flown off his face completely, and she’s not entirely prepared for the flurry of kisses across her face and the curve of her shoulder and the bit of skin not covered by blankets, but it’s as nice as it’s been for the last few weeks and smug is _definitely_ the right word.

Covet might be another good one.

She covets these moments, quiet and easy and so much better than she ever imagined when she refused to admit that she _could_ imagine them. At some point in the last few weeks Emma has turned into some kind of emotional dragon, hoarding feelings and thoughts and possible plans that, really, she’ll voice out loud eventually – probably after the kissing.

They kiss all the time now.

It’s driving Henry insane.

It might be driving Emma’s father insane too.

But she can’t seem to stop, her smile easy every time she feels Killian glance her direction. That’s happening more often than not, time spent together and breakfast dates and lunch dates and dinner dates and dates by the harbor and dates _not_ by the harbor with a distinct lack of clothing.

The whole thing has kind of felt like walking into something. That’s a terrible sentence. It’s not specific enough or detailed enough, but Emma just kind of feels like she’s stumbled into something almost resembling normal. It’s not simple, _nothing_ about her feelings for her three-hundred-year-old pirate boyfriend is simple, it’s convoluted and deep and kind of jarring, but it keeps making her smile and he’s stopped even trying to look at her like anything except several thousand constellations.

It makes her kind of giddy.

And smug. And a little possessive. Dragon-esque.

“Swan, you’re doing it again,” Killian mumbles, not bothering to lift his mouth away from her arm.

She glances at him, trying and failing to match him eyebrow shift for eyebrow shift and it fails spectacularly if his quiet chuckle against her skin is any indication. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“You think so loudly I’d imagine you’re taking lessons from your automobile.”   
  
“That’s the most ridiculous sentence I’ve ever heard.”   
  
“Like Henry’s turned the volume up all the way on the television.”   
  
“That makes a little more sense.”   
  
“I wasn’t actually insulting your automobile,” he says. He lifts his head up, but he doesn’t actually move back towards the small mountain of pillows he’s accumulated in his room at Granny’s. He rests his chin on the jut of her hip instead, and his feet must be hanging off the end of the bed which honestly might be the single most endearing thing Emma’s ever seen.

And, literally, two seconds before her three-hundred-year-old pirate boyfriend enunciated every single syllable in _automobile_ because he’s still trying to wrap his mind around some of the more modern words in this realm.

“I know you weren’t,” Emma promises, fingers finding their way into his hair like there are magnets there.

Killian’s eyes flutter shut, breath falling out of him and it’s as relaxed as she can remember seeing him in...ever. The thought leaves Emma’s heart pounding and her pulse racing and everything is far too nice. She’s a goddamn pessimist.

Maybe she should remind him again that she’s not wearing any clothes.

They’re very good at dates that end without clothes.

They’re, honestly, really, ridiculously good at all of this, which may be part of the reason for Emma’s irregular pulse, but she knows if she thinks about that anymore, Killian’s eyebrows are going to move again and she should probably get back to the loft eventually.

To check her phone.   
  
Or something.

She really doesn’t want to check her phone.

Like ever again.

“Swan,” Killian starts, the cautious tone of his voice making her want to scream and jump and cry and it’s a myriad of emotions that absolutely does not belong in a rented room when her bra is...somewhere. Possibly hanging off the bathroom doorknob.

“You know it’s a perfectly safe car,” Emma interrupts sharply. “And really I don’t think you have a leg to stand on because you’re an actual pirate. Who lived on a ship. That’s dangerous. My car is not dangerous. It’s old, but it’s, you know, it’s mine and it passed inspection when we were in New York and that was in the middle of Manhattan and I know none of that was real, but I definitely sat in that mechanic’s office in Queens for like...half a day and--”  
  
“--Swan.”   
  
“You know I bet you’d actually like Queens. There’s, like, you know, some city-type stuff and really good views in Long Island City and Henry liked that Chinese food more than anything else we ever got because Flushing is way more legit and Chinatown is really more tourist than anything else and--”   
  
“--Swan.”   
  
“Plus there are beaches in Queens. It’d take forever to get out to the Rockaways, but they’re there and a lot better now than they were a couple years ago and that’s the ocean and--”   
  
“--Emma.”   
  
She jerks her head up at the sound of her own name, eyes wide and it takes her a moment to realize she hasn’t taken a deep breath in what feels like several eternities. Killian doesn’t blink, just stares at her with that calm and understanding expression that she might have started considering _hers_ in a dragon kind of way.

The room kind of feels like it’s spinning.

His chin is still pressed into her hip.

“Was this all because of the comments on your face?” Killian asks softly, and Emma can hear the teasing lilt there, mixed in with the caution and the want and they’ve been doing the _no clothes date_ thing for awhile now, but they’ve kind of danced around definitions and qualifiers and she’d kind of like both of those.

A lot.

“Nah,” Emma says, scrunching her nose and she really can’t think when Killian smiles like that. “I mean you sounded pretty smug about me being smug, but presumably that comes with the pirate thing.”  
  
“It is occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”   
  
“Yeah, you sound it.”   
  
“I’d offer several doubloons to know what you’re thinking though.”   
  
Emma laughs, the tension in between her shoulders evaporating as quickly as if it were never there to begin with. She’s going to throw her phone into the goddamn harbor. Or New York harbor. Maybe. If they ever figure out how to leave Storybrooke again.

“I really wasn’t kidding about Flushing,” Emma says. Her fingers are still in Killian’s hair, tracing idle patterns across the nape of his neck and the side of his jaw and it’s all so defined and _there_ and she just has to say it out loud. She should really be studied because her thoughts are an absolute mess.

“That’s a dreadful name.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t know the etymology of a neighborhood in Queens. But the Chinese food is pretty fantastic. Better than anything we’ve got here.”  
  
“Eh, the food here is…”   
  
Killian trails off, squeezing one eye shut like Emma’s going to be personally offended that he’s a complete food snob. And he is. Seriously. It’s hysterical. He’s got thoughts on everything – reading the handful of cookbooks in the loft like they’re the latest _New York Times_ best sellers and then announcing, in no uncertain terms, that _every recipe in her is incorrect, love_. It makes Emma laugh every single time.

There have been several cooking dates.  

Her mother offered them free reign of the loft kitchen a week and a half ago, Killian determined to make something that’s _better than whatever slop that Barefoot woman is hawking_ and Emma had to bite her lip to stop herself from collapsing into some kind of absurd heap and he asked, no less than sixteen different times, if Ina Garten was actually some kind of royal.

The food was good – better, really, but that pirate ego did, occasionally, have to be kept in check – and it all sort of dissolved into making out in her parent’s kitchen with flour, somehow, on Emma’s nose and they barely pulled apart before David opened the front door.

Killian’s ears had been red for most of dinner.

“Say it,” Emma challenges, but there’s a smile on her face and Killian’s eyes almost seem to flash when they meet hers. “Go on.”  
  
“It’s rude to critique the realm you’re in, love.”   
  
“Ah, but you’re not visiting, right? You can make fun of your own thing. That’s...that’s how it works, right?”   
  
Killian blinks. And Emma bites her lip when she realizes what she’s said, an abrupt request for definitions and qualifiers without actually asking.

“Damn,” she mumbles. “That’s not what I meant at all.”  
  
His chin is going to leave a bruise on her skin, digging into her side and it all feels impossibly heavy and just as easy because Killian’s smile seems to work across his face in slow motion and settle in the space around them and possibly in between Emma’s ribs and the center of her soul and she never really wants to leave that bed.

She’s far too comfortable.

That feels important.

“Not visiting,” Killian says, and it sounds like a promise and a decree and the audible definition of the word want. Emma wants to hear it on loop for, quite possibly, the rest of her life.

Huh.

“No?”  
  
“Are you worried that I am? I seem to remember that leaving the town means I can’t ever come back. I’d rather avoid that if possible, Swan.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Swan, these one word questions aren’t doing much to help me understand what you’re thinking.”

Emma scoffs, and she wishes her body would decide on an emotion. “Yeah, that’s fair. Maybe you should offer up some more doubloons.”  
  
“Only if I’m guaranteed some kind of response. Supply and demand, you see.”   
  
“Look at you, with your modern economics.”   
  
“No, no, that’s rather basic. And a little pirate, honestly.”   
  
“Oh yeah? You think Wall Street is a bunch of not-so-secret pirates? That’d probably explain a lot of things about the world.”   
  
“You’re making references I don’t understand on purpose,” Killian accuses, a distinct lack of frustration in his voice. Emma’s body seems to have settled on pure, unadulterated joy. And a deep-rooted desire to make out some more.

So, really, it’s two things, but they’re kind of similar, or, like at least under the same metaphorical umbrella and--

“Emma,” he says, and she’s never been so annoyed to hear her own name twice in the span of a few minutes. “You keep drifting in and out of the conversation. You’ll give a man a complex.”  
  
“Should I repeat that I’m still not wearing clothes, then?”   
  
“Aye, it may help.”

She grins, eyes falling closed as Killian’s fingers dance across her side. The blankets have moved at some point, probably a product of whatever the hell his chin is doing, but Emma can’t find it in herself to be self conscious or worried or anything except blissfully happy and, maybe, a little hopeful and--

“Are you good?” Emma asks suddenly. Killian’s fingers still.

“Good?”  
  
“Yeah, you know, like...good.”   
  
“I’m afraid just repeating the word doesn’t do much to help explain it, Swan.”   
  
“Do you not know the definition of the word good?”

He rolls his eyes, an _absurd_ movement that’s somehow magnified when his hair just seems to artfully fall across his forehead and the whole bed shakes when he climbs back up towards her. One of the pillows fall on the ground.

“I’m well aware of the definition of the word good,” Killian says. “I’m admittedly a little confused on the context in which you’re using it though.”  
  
“God, it’s not fair when you talk fancy like that.”   
  
“I’m just talking.”   
  
“Fancy.”   
  
“I believe you’re paying me compliments in an attempt to distract me, Swan.”   
  
Emma’s whole soul is going to combust – right there in bed. With her bra hanging off the bathroom doorknob. Granny will be annoyed. Emma will, presumably, have exploded though, so she figures it’s a fair trade and she’s not entirely sure what noise she makes when Killian’s mouth slants over hers.

He rolls her onto her back, hand moving with the kind of purpose that makes her hips rock up and her body feel like a live wire and she’s got no control of her limbs. She hooks one foot around the back of his calf, trying to pull him closer or just ensure that he stays there, perpetually, and there’s some, small, reasonable part of her brain that knows he wants to.

Desperately.

She’s way past doubting him.

She just likes to hear it.

She’s an emotional dragon, hoarding proclamations and declarations and the feeling in the pit of her stomach whenever she’s in Killian’s atmosphere, like there is an army butterflies there and they all want to shout and scream and kiss him until he can’t see straight or remember the names of those several thousand constellations.

“I think the distraction is working,” Emma mumbles, drawing another noise out of Killian that will very likely be imprinted on her memory for the rest of her goddamn life.

“It’s rude to tease a man like that, love.”  
  
“Am I teasing? I’ve got no idea where my bra is.”   
  
He groans, ducking his head again and kissing her with a fervor that’s dizzying and thrilling and, somehow, kind of feels like home. God, she hopes it feels like home.

She desperately wants it to be home.

She desperately wants him to be home.

“I think it’s under the bed actually,” Killian mutters, lips dragging across her jaw and the side of her neck and one of them sighs when both her legs wrap around his.

“How did that happen?”  
  
“First you’re asking me about definitions of words and now you’re questioning my plan while trying to get you out of clothes?”   
  
“There was a plan?”

“Aye,” he nods. There’s stubble on his chin, scraping lightly over the skin of her cheek and there’ll probably be red marks on her neck, but Emma almost relishes them and wants them and this has been the least productive conversation in the history of the English language and romance. “At least the hope of a plan.”  
  
“Sounds awfully optimistic.”   
  
He hums. “That seems to be a trend in recent weeks.”   
  
“You’ve circled right back around to my point,” Emma laughs, the words getting caught in between their mouths when her lips drift back to his. They are exceptionally good at this. She hopes that bodes well for the future.

That’s another very large word. With lots of meaning.

She should have written down all the points she wanted to make tonight, but it hadn’t really settled into the forefront of her mind until Killian _did_ mention her car and his fingers were most dangerous things in all the realms. They made her breathe a bit easier, tracing over skin like he was doing inventory and taking stock and making sure she was there.

Like he wanted as much as Emma did.

She knows he does.

She’s going to be greedy though.  

“Refused to be distracted entirely by the siren in my bed,” Killian mumbles.

“Is that an insult? Don’t sirens lure sailors to their deaths?”  
  
“Depends on the story, I’d imagine.”   
  
“And this isn’t that kind of story?”

She’s done it again, asked a question with a _deeper_ meaning and Killian’s eyebrows are going to be sprained by the end of the night. Or morning. It may actually be morning now.

“I don’t think so,” Killian says, voice low with the weight of its meaning and how well Emma seems to fit against his chest. “I hope not, at least.”  
  
“My mom would tell you that any hope is all you need.”   
  
“Perhaps you don’t mention your mother while I’m trying to keep you in a state of perpetual undress, huh?”   
  
“Perpetual,” Emma echoes, and his smile turns a hint salacious. It’ll be probably be weird if she melts right there in the middle of the bed.

“At least the next few hours.”  
  
“Aim high.”   
  
“Did you miss the part about the plan?”   
  
Emma nods, lower lip jutted out, but that just seems like some kind of target for Killian and she refuses to be held accountable for the noise she makes when he nips at her mouth. He mutters something that sounds a hell of a lot like _drive a man to distraction_ and Emma resists the urge to point out it’s only kind of weird that he keeps kind of talking in third person.

She’s all in on the plan, anyway.

“I guess,” Emma starts, and Killian only looks a little scandalized they’re still not making out. “I wanted to...make sure things were…”  
  
“Good?”   
  
“Is it wrong to be a little cautious?”   
  
“Of course not,” he says. “After everything you’ve experienced, love, it’s more than fair.”   
  
It takes her a moment to work around the sudden wad of _emotion_ sitting in the back of her throat, but Killian’s still staring at her and waiting and that’s always been the case. Her mind is reminding her of the definitions of several other words.

She bites her tongue.

And says something else.

“I wasn’t really talking about me,” Emma whispers.

“I don’t understand.”  
  
“I just…” She sighs, twisting her mouth and scrunching her nose and it’s difficult to avoid how blue his gaze gets when he’s worried about her.  
  
_He’s worried about her_.

“You’ve got to articulate, Swan.”  
  
“Look who’s being smug now. I don’t...you’re the one who’s usually making sweeping speeches. Isn’t that a captain requirement? Rally the troops or something.”   
  
“You’re mixing terminology.”   
  
“What would it be then?”   
  
“I had a crew, love,” Killian says, and he’s smiling, but there’s a note of _something_ in the words that makes her pulse stutter and her lungs clench and maybe they’re actually worried about each other. That’s kind of nice. In a perpetual relationship kind of way.

She should probably put her bra on before she tells him she’s fairly certain she could love him. Or does. Presently.

Whatever.

“I’m really bad at sweeping speeches,” Emma mutters.

“That’s not true at all. You’re a rather inspiring leader when the time calls for it.”  
  
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”   
  
He laughs, simple and normal – a flash of teeth and that lopsided twist of his lips and honestly they should bring in some kind of genetic expert to figure out how he makes his eyes do that thing. It’s totally unfair. His knees must be sore, still hovering over her, but Emma’s hands keep tracing over him, dragging over the muscles in his back and the veins in his forearms. Her fingers come dangerously close to the ink on his shoulder blade, a quiet admission the first time a date ended without clothes about _the missing year_ and _I thought I’d never see you again, love_ and she brushed her lips over his when his eyes went a bit glossy, determined to do something and promise everything and she wanted to fall asleep in that bed.

Perpetually.

“That’s certain the goal,” Killian laughs, and Emma lets her eyes close again. “But I’m willing to be inspired now, if you’re up to it.”  
  
“That sounded a bit like a demand.”   
  
“A request.”   
  
“I wasn’t aware that was part of pirate code.”   
  
“You watch too many of those films, Swan. Pirate code is rather….open to interpretation. And I hardly think I’d ever demand much of anything from you.”

Emma has to lick her lips before she response, the sincerity in those few words making the Earth spin on an entirely different rotation – or just her own personal atmosphere expanding a bit to include Killian and this and them and she’d never made so many silent science puns in her life. “Yeah, I know,” she says, but it comes out far more breathless than she intended. 

“Do you?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s kind of where I’m going with this. I just...shit, this is garbage isn’t it? It’s because you’re really good looking.”

Killian barks out a laugh, head falling forward until nearly every inch of him touches every inch of Emma and they get distracted for a few more minutes again. “I’ll have to keep that in mind,” he mutters, back on his side of the bed because at some point that just sort of started happening.

“For future plans?”  
  
“Aye.”   
  
It’s more certainty and conviction and probably another word that starts with ‘c’ and means absolutely everything, and Emma’s starting to feel her exhaustion, settling in her muscles and her bones, like it’s trying to pull her into the mattress and make sure she stays there. Killian’s some kind of human heater anyway – her own personal sun that sounds as absurd in her head as it would be out loud, but her feet are always freezing and she figures it’d be nice to fall asleep warm for once.

“You ever going to hold up on our bargain though, Swan?” Killian asks, a smirk and eyebrow shift and she rolls her eyes because they really can’t kiss each other all night. Probably.

“The flirting seems kind of overkill don’t you think?”

“A natural state of being around you.”  
  
“Oh, my God,” Emma sighs. She’s absolutely swooning. “And, yeah, yeah, I just….I mean this has been good, right?” Killian’s eyes narrow, like he’s preparing himself for the worst and she can almost see his hackles raise. She’s not even sure what hackles are. “That’s not, no, no,” she sputters, waving the arm not pinned underneath her side through the air and she’s barely even surprised when he catches her around the wrist.

“There’s not anything to be nervous about, Emma.”  
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” he repeats. “I’m happy, love. Incredibly. And I hope….well I want you to be happy too.”   
  
“I am.”   
  
“Then what’s the problem?”   
  
“There isn’t one?”   
  
He doesn’t laugh immediately, which, honestly is pretty nice, but the sound he makes is a little incredulous and Emma swears she can feel it in her toes when he kisses her. Again. “There’s no need to make sure,” Killian says, mostly against her lips and the side of her chin. “You’re allowed just to be, Emma.”   
  
She hums, not a disagreement, but not an entire agreement and she _wants_ that, desperately and indefinitely and her phone has been so quiet. She’s terrified of the fallout.

She wants to stay in that room.

She wants a whole bunch of rooms. Together. Like they’re building something. She wants to bring her pirate boyfriend to Queens because he hates a lot of this realm’s food, but he _loves_ potstickers and even the thought of that makes her whole being swoop and swoon.

“It’s not going to be like this forever,” Emma whispers, not arguing when he tugs her back to his side. “There’s going to be some shitty, shit thing and Gold is still out there, probably trying to screw things up and like I’m just...hoarding feelings.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Like a dragon?”   
  
“Is there a tail I’m missing?”

Emma clicks her tongue, but her hand stays still on Killian’s chest and maybe there _are_ magnets involved because his mouth brushes over the top of her hair with now-practiced ease. “You know what I mean,” she says. “I just...you gave up your ship and your crew and all of that and now none of us can leave without some horrible fate befalling us and--”  
  
“--And I’d do that all again, Swan. Without a second thought.”   
  
“You’re stealing my sweeping speeches thunder.”

“Ah, of course. Not my intention.”  
  
“I mean, you know, you’re pretty good at the sweeping speeches though,” Emma continues. “One-hundred percent would make out post speech.”   
  
“That’s a rather large percentage.”   
  
“All of it, in fact.”

Killian nods, and there’s more kissing and there are more roaming hands and Emma doesn’t know all of the names of those constellations, yet, but she’s sure a few of them explode behind her closed eyes eventually. It takes a moment to catch her breath and she does, finally, find her bra – somehow stuffed in the sleeve of Killian’s jacket which is _honestly, some kind of miracle of science, babe, I swear_ and his whole face changes at the endearment.

Emma freezes, stuck in the middle of the floor with only her bra and a hopeful smile on her face. And it’s not like she’s an exceptionally sentimental person, usually, but the word just seemed to fall out of her and she wants him to react like that every single time.

“Aw, c’mon, you’ve got a dictionary’s worth of nicknames, and you’re going to look at me like that when I call you babe?” Emma balks. “That is stupid. You know that, right? That’s absurd and ridiculous and--”  
  
“--Sweepingly romantic,” Killian finishes, back in her space with his hands on her hips and the whole goddamn bed and breakfast could catch on fire and Emma wouldn’t notice.

“Yeah, something like that.”  
  
“I don’t think it’s going to be like this forever, Swan. It’s...there’s magic and evil and the world itself with your puns I don’t understand yet, but I…” He swallows, tongue flashing between his lips and shoulders shifting and she believes him before he even finishes the sentence. “I’m still happy, love, and I’d like to make sure you are as well. No matter what arrives in this ridiculous town with its rules and curses and anything else it can dream up.”   
  
“God, I hope no one dreams up things for us to battle. That’d be kind of a dick move.”

Killian laughs, forehead resting on hers when he leans forward. “Aye, an absolute dick move.”  
  
“I enjoy making you say modern things.”   
  
“I’ve picked up on that, strangely enough.”

Emma grins, fingers ghosting over his hip and more muscle and she’s absolutely hoarding every sound he makes. “What are your thoughts on sleeping? And me?”  
  
“As a collective unit?”   
  
“Yuh huh?”   
  
Something, something, he stares at her with the force of every sunrise in the history of the known world and a few other realms.

“I’d love that.”

It’s not _those_ words in _that_ specific order, but Emma’s heart stilts anyway and she _wants_ and _needs_ and she’s hopeful they’ll get there soon. It’s the best she’s slept in as long as she can remember, kisses on the back of her neck when she starts to wake up and blankets pooled around her waist and they knocked most of the pillows on the floor at some point in the middle of the night.

“I’ve got to go get new clothes,” she grumbles, drawing another laugh out of Killian that sinks into every single inch of her.

“Aye, wouldn’t want to scandalize the townsfolk.”  
  
“Hey, that’s not...I don’t care about that, you know that right? I am...well, I’d like to keep doing this. From now on. You know.”   
  
“This?” Emma sighs when he smiles, but she’s still pretty charmed and that’s impressive considering the distinct lack of caffeine in her system. “You’re the one who wanted to make sweeping speeches before, Swan.”   
  
“This,” she repeats. “You and me and a collective sleeping unit and maybe we can figure out how to get out of this town without some kind of horrible life-altering threat hanging over our heads. There’s seriously such better food out there.”   
  
“Don’t let the Widow Lucas hear you say that.”   
  
“What was it you said last night? Maybe a moratorium on talking about my mom or Granny when neither one of us is wearing clothes.”   
  
His laugh echoes off the walls and in between her ears and Emma’s fairly sure it times up with her pulse too, just to really hammer the point home. “Aye, love,” Killian says, dragging his lips over the edge of her mouth. “That’s a very good plan.”

Emma does leave, wearing the same clothes she walked in in, and Granny, to her credit, doesn’t actually say anything. She blinks, but she doesn’t say anything and there’s something to be said for rather small miracles.

Like her mother sitting at the kitchen table in the loft, a sleeping baby in her arms and absolutely no sign of Prince Charming when Emma closes the door behind her.

“He thought you were still asleep,” Snow says, before Emma can even ask if there’s coffee.

“He realizes I’m an adult, right? Like. With a kid. And an adult.”

“Felt obligated to mention that more than once?” Emma nods, and Snow’s smile widens. “Of course. And he trusts Killian. Implicitly.”

“Yeah?”  
  
Snow nods. “Of course. After that ice wall debacle, it’d be impossible not to. It’s obvious how much he--”   
  
“--You called him Killian,” Emma interrupts, because she’s been thinking words but she’s not sure if she’s ready to hear her fairy tale mother start waxing poetic about romance quite yet. At least not before coffee.

“I’d like to keep doing that. It’s...you look happy.”  
  
“I am.”   
  
“Then I’d like to keep doing that.”   
  
There is, in fact, coffee and Emma’s not sure how it happens, but she sits at the kitchen table and eats the bagel her mother toasts for her and tells her...everything. Traded pirate ships and past kisses and current wants and the words tumble out of her, sentence after sentence and feeling after feeling and Snow doesn’t interrupt. She lets Emma talk and discuss and, on more than one occasion, pace, but her eyes don’t drift away and it’s almost _too_ obvious how invested she is in the conversation.

It’s kind of nice.

It’s absolutely nice.

“I....like him,” Emma whispers, voice hoarse and mouth dry and she has no idea how her brother hasn’t woken up yet. “A lot.”

Snow practically beams. “Good.”

They drink the entire coffee pot.

And, hours later, at the corner of Main Street and Seaview Ave, after she’s showered and changed her clothes, Emma steps out of her perfectly safe automobile to find her three-hundred-year-old pirate boyfriend waiting for her, coffee in hand and a smile still etched on his face and it seems absurd to do anything except kiss him.

“I just saw you a few hours ago, Swan,” Killian says, but his arm works its way around her shoulders and she fits so well against him. And vice versa. They fit well together.

“Yeah, yeah, there’s no need to be smug about it,” Emma grumbles. “C’mon, I’ll walk you to the library.”

His arm stays around her the entire time, another kiss and more smiles and Emma finishes her coffee by the time she makes it to the station, certain whatever happens, whenever it happens, they’ll figure out it; together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the ever continuing saga of Laura writing canon. It's getting more and more absurd with more and more makeouts, so that's basically exactly what I expected to happen. This is also the start of my posts for [The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon)
> 
> I reached a follower milestone on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) last month and am writing an excessive amount of words (and makeouts!) if you guys do something good for someone else. So if you want to get in on that, I'm taking prompts until the end of August.


	21. Batting a Thousand

She honestly doesn’t mean for it to happen.

If there is a string of words that is the exact opposite of _this is what Emma Swan meant to happen_ , then that is exactly what she would be because she absolutely, positively did not mean for this to happen.

The happening, as it is, is David pacing in front of the Yankees team hotel in Boston, something that might be actual steam coming out of his ears because he’s just realized his sister is dating his sworn baseball enemy.

His words.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, staring at her feet and Killian looks torn between slinging an arm around her shoulders and challenging David to a duel in the middle of the sidewalk.

The whole thing is absurd.

That’s a good word for it.

It’s absurd and ridiculous and literal years in the making. Emma takes a step back, David’s eyebrows flying into his hairline and Mary Margaret presses her lips together, presumably so she doesn’t actually dissolve into hysterics.

The situation feels a little hysterical.

And whatever sound David makes when Emma laces her fingers through Killian’s and she can just make out the scar under the pad of her thumb. He squeezes back.

“So, uh,” Emma says, doing her best to make her voice even and calm and Killian kisses the top of her hair. “This is a thing that’s happening.”  
  
“And has been,” Killian adds.   
  
“Ok, that’s not helping.”   
  
“I’m being honest, Swan.”   
  
“That’s still not helping.”   
  
“Has been?” Mary Margaret repeats. Emma nods, eyes flashing to David who, it appears, has evolved into marble at some point. “How long?”   
  
“Uh...awhile.”   
  
“You’ve go tot start at the beginning,” David mutters, but it sounds like a demand and a bit like a plea and they’re all wearing far too much team-branded clothing for any of this to feel like a legitimate conversation.

Killian kisses her hair again.

And, really, Emma’s not even entirely sure how it _did_ begin because it wasn’t like they were friends.

Emma didn’t even really know him. She knew of him, heard David grouse about _Jones’ power at the plate_ like he hadn’t used alliteration to describe some guy on a different team nearly every time she talked to him that spring. It was, of course, true, Killian Jones had ridiculous power at the plate, but Emma knew better than to agree and David _hated_ him.

“He’s a threat to our Series chances, Em,” he’d shout, and Emma’s eyes would flicker towards Mary Margaret who’d just shrug in response because it was almost comforting to hear David repeat the same string of words twenty-two times every other day.

Emma never met him. She didn’t know anything about Killian Jones, all-SEC third baseman, except that he regularly hit over .300 and had a ridiculously strong arm on cross-field throws. David regularly yelled about that too.

But then something happened.

And she didn’t mean for that to happen either.

David hit Killian Jones.

He promises, still, always, _forever_ , it wasn’t on purpose and Emma believes him, but she doesn't ever quite forget what it looked like to watch Killian crumple at the plate, the hiss of his pain echoing in between her ears. David barely makes it off the mound, the guilt of it all obvious on his shoulders because they take Killian away in an ambulance and there are murmurings about _hospitals_ and _broken hands_ and Emma’s never really sure who suggests they go visit him, but it’s probably Mary Margaret.

She’s that kind of person.

So they do. They get in Emma’s car and it’s definitely against team rules, but David can’t hold her gaze and she knows he’s got to apologize in person.

And that's how Emma Swan meets Killian Jones.

He’s only vaguely cognizant, something about painkillers and an attempt at a smirk that doesn’t even come close to hitting its mark. He grins at her the entire time they stand in that room, David running through apologies and promises that he’s _so sorry_ and _didn’t mean it_ and Killian hums distractedly.

“What did you say your name was?” he asks, and Emma has to blink, approximately, seventeen times to make sure he’s actually talking to her.

His voice is kind of slurred.

She assumes there’s morphine involved.

“Emma,” she repeats. Mary Margaret’s got a _look_ on her face. Emma wishes she wouldn’t. “My name is Emma Swan.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
“That’s what I said.”   
  
“But your angry brother’s name is Nolan.”   
  
“Ok, I’m not angry,” David argues, but Mary Margaret actually _shushes_ him and Emma takes a cautious step towards the hospital bed. Killian arches an eyebrow. He tries, at least.

“You’re not entirely coherent, right now, are you?”  
  
He shakes his head. “I’m perfectly coherent. And perceptive. Why the different last names?”   
  
“Adopted.”   
  
“Ah.”   
  
“That’s it?”   
  
“Were you looking for more of a reaction?”   
  
“Maybe not while you’re high on Vicodin.”   
  
“Morphine,” Killian corrects, but that word doesn’t sound much like a word either and Emma wishes she weren’t so charmed by this. “Only the good stuff here.”   
  
“Seems to be a matter of opinion, doesn’t it?”

He’s closed his eyes at some point, but Emma swears she can still feel him looking at her and Mary Margaret is actively trying to get David to leave. They brought Killian flowers. And a card. The whole thing is absolutely absurd. “Do you have a lot of opinions on how my recovery should go, Swan?” Killian drawls.

She resists the urge to swat at him. She’s pretty positive his hand is actually broken. “None,” Emma promises. “At all.”  
  
“That’s disappointing.”   
  
He’s high on painkillers. His eyes are still closed. He has no idea who she is. He probably thinks she’s some kind of baseball angel.

That’s actually almost kind of romantic.

Maybe Emma’s the one who’s suffering from too much morphine.

“Is it?” she asks, not sure why she’s prolonging this conversation. He hit a double earlier in the game though, and the whole thing did something absurd to her heart and possibly the way her brain worked and he was a really good baseball player.

David thought so. And David wouldn’t lie.

Killian hums, scrunching the pillow under his head when he nods. “Decidedly.”  
  
“If this is supposed to be charming it’s--”   
  
“--Don’t bother trying to tell me you’re not charmed, Swan, I absolutely know it’s working.”   
  
“You can’t even open your eyes.”   
  
“That’s because I’m exhausted and your brother tried to kill me.”

“Hey, c’mon, that’s not true at all,” David cries, but he’s got one foot already out the door and Mary Margaret is actually tugging on his shirt.

“It’s a little true,” Killian mumbles. “What do you think, love? You think he was actively trying to kill me or just make sure Auburn wins a conference title this season?”  
  
“You’ve covered the gamut of nicknames, haven’t you?” Emma asks, and his eyes snap open like they’re on a lever. They’re distractingly blue. She assumes they look very good while he’s wearing a Vanderbilt uniform.

She assumes he looks very good while wearing a Vanderbilt uniform.

And like...anything.

“Hit for the cycle,” Killian mutters. She can’t quite stop her answering laugh. He looks like he just hit a grand slam every time he got up to bat.

“You think you’re far funnier than you actually are.”

He hums again, smile a bit easier and almost kind of natural and Emma’s eyes widen when she glances over her shoulder at Mary Margaret. Who appears to be trying to communicate with her telepathically. It almost, kind of works.

“I think you think I’m funny, Swan,” Killian challenges. “And I think your brother would like to leave this hospital as soon as possible.”  
  
“You’re a goddamn mind reader, Jones,” David mutters.

Emma rolls her eyes. “David, give the guy a break. He’s hopped up on morphine and--”

“--Endorphins,” Killian cuts in.

“What? That doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
“Endorphins. Because you’re rather distracting, you know that, Swan? And your eyes are going to get stuck that way.”   
  
She doesn’t argue – possibly because she’s lost control of the situation entirely and possibly because she’s still being _stupid_ charmed by it and it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. But then Emma’s groaning and mumbling a string of curses under her breath and she's certain, under pain of death, or hit by a pitch, that Killian's eyes actually flash when he realizes what she’s doing.

There’s a pen on the table next to his bed, a piece of garbage notepad that barely holds together when she yanks it out of the drawer. “Not exactly the Ritz Carlton is it,?” Emma asks.

“I’d hardly expect that from your area hospital when your school's mascot is some god awful cartoon tiger and occasionally an eagle,” he says. “Make up your mind.”  
  
“What even is a Commodore?”   
  
“It’s a military rank.”   
  
“That’s not a mascot.”   
  
“Only because you lot are hoarding all of them.”   
  
Emma laughs again. She wishes he would stop making her do that. He doesn’t. For years. Because she, for reasons she never entirely understands, writes her name and number on that piece of garbage notepad and at some point she almost, kind of considers Killian Jones, first-round draft pick by the New York Yankees, a friend.

A good friend.

Not, like, her best friend, or some guy who is maybe an almost _what if_ because that’s absolutely, positively not how she operates. But, like, a guy. A good guy friend.

They talk. They text. He, sometimes, calls her when the team flight is delayed and maybe more often during Spring Training that year because “it’s a contract year, love” and he’s admittedly a little nervous and Emma promises “you’ll hit a hundred RBIs.”  
  
He tells her RBI shouldn’t have a plural.

“It’s already a multiple, Swan,” Killian laughs, stretched out in a bed that’s almost comically small for him and she makes a mental note to critique the Yankees for their less-than-impressive facilities in Tampa. “You add that extra ‘s’ and it’s what? Runs batted ins. That’s not even English.”  
  
“You don’t have a degree,” Emma points out. “You don't get an opinion on this.”   
  
“That doesn’t mean I don’t understand the English language, love.”   
  
She rolls her eyes, but mostly so she can better ignore that little _jolt_ her heart gets every time he calls her that and David has _no_ idea. Killian’s not his friend. “ESPN uses RBIs in its stories,” Emma counters. “I don’t care what the right grammar is. If the Worldwide Leader is doing it, then--”   
  
“--Who is calling them that?”   
  
“Should they not be?”   
  
“Not when they don’t think we have a chance of winning the Division.”

“That’s because you don't,” Emma smiles, mostly so she can get him to make _that_ face, a mix of disgust and a century’s-old rivalry that involves curses and benches clearing brawls and, now, maybe a few familial issues. “And when do you even find the time to watch ESPN?”

“When do you find the time to read articles about the state of the American League?”  
  
“Just the AL East.”   
  
“Ah, of course.”   
  
“I’ve got a vested interest, you see.”   
  
Killian blinks, all blue and hopeful and they are friends. Friends. _Friends_. David would kill him. He’d hit him again. The bullpens would join the inevitable fight. She’s got every New York-Boston series circled on her calendar already.

“That so?” Killian asks, an almost impressive effort at normal. His voice cracks slightly though and it seems to time up perfectly with whatever Emma’s pulse is doing. Possibly trying to beat its way out of her body.

That’d probably make the FaceTime call weird.

“Well, it’d be easier if you signed with the Yankees again,” Emma reasons. “I’d hate to have to schedule these phone calls when I’ve got to worry about time zones as well.”  
  
“Wouldn't be right to inconvenience you like that, love. Plus, you know, pinstripes, very slimming.”   
  
She laughs, a breath of _normal_ and _friendship_ and she’s never hated either word more in her life. “Make sure you mention that to your agent, ok? And maybe the ridiculous on base you’ve got this spring.”   
  
“That’s just training, Swan. We played a college team this afternoon.”   
  
“Still. Hitting is hitting. And college teams can be good. You know, winning World Series and impressive victories in Omaha and all that.”   
  
“There’s no need to rub it in.”   
  
Emma grins, a flush of _something_ shooting down her spine that feels suspiciously like several words she’d like to avoid and never expected. Someone calls Killian’s name, his head jerking towards the open doorway and he’s nodding and agreeing to dinner and film sessions and maybe some time in the cage.

Because it’s a contract year.

It’s an important year.

“I’ve got to go love,” Killian says, and she’s not counting endearments. She’s not. She’s noticing them. In passing.

There is no obsession. There is only friendship.

Emma nods. “Yeah, of course. But you know you can do damage to your rotator cuff if you hit in automated settings too often. ESPN mentioned that too.”  
  
“I’ll keep that in mind. Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you after you guys wreck another local college team.”  
  
“Deal.”

The Yankees open the season as the Wild Card favorites, Boston’s the favorite to win the Division and third to win the entire goddamn World Series and Emma texts both her brother and Killian after every single one of their games.

“Because we’re friends,” Emma explains. Elsa tilts her head, a silent objection that’s almost louder than any words she could actually say, sitting cross-legged on her couch in Toronto and Emma’s only there for the weekend, a visit because she hadn’t been in awhile and maybe the Yankees are in town that weekend, but it doesn’t really matter and--

“You want to kiss him,” Elsa says.

“That’s not true.”

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Don’t do that. You sound like Mary Margaret.”   
  
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Emma admits. “And this is not like that. We’re...I mean David plays for the Red Sox, you think I can just…”

Elsa’s eyes widen to an almost comical size when Emma trails off and he texted her the day before –  _tickets waiting at Rogers if you want ‘em, Swan._ It might have been the only thing she’d thought of in the last twenty-four hours. She should probably apologize to Elsa at some point.

“It’s ridiculous that you think you can’t,” Elsa says evenly. “You know that, right? This is not some baseball Romeo and Juliet.”  
  
“I’d really it rather wasn’t, honestly.”

“Then we should probably go to the game, don’t you think?”

Emma nods before she can think better of it. And Killian goes two-for-five in another Yankee victory, someone in a team-branded polo finding them after the final out because they’re sitting in _special seats_ or something that doesn’t sound quite so lame and Elsa actually giggles when they’re told _Mr. Jones hopes you’ll wait outside the team exit for him_.

“That’s the fanciest sentence I’ve ever heard,” Elsa mutters, nudging Emma in the side like she wasn’t also there. She’s having some trouble hearing over the ringing in her ears anyway. “How come David doesn't ever invite us to the team exit?”  
  
“There are probably rules,” Emma reasons.

“And your brother doesn’t want to date you.”  
  
“The opinions just get more and more pointed, don’t they?”   
  
Elsa simply smiles in response. And it takes some time, sitting in incredibly plush chairs with the Blue Jays emblem stitched into the back and Emma really doesn’t mean for her breath to actually hitch when Killian walks into the room.

He beams at her.

“Huh,” Elsa says. “So that’s what that looks like.”  
  
Emma glares at her, but it’s pointless because she’s already introducing herself and thanking Killian for the tickets and telling him he _looked good out there today_ like she’s ever cared about sports in her entire life.

“Thanks,” Killian says, distracted and quick, like he’s trying to rush over the letters to make sure the conversation doesn’t have a chance to linger in that room for too long. His eyes keep darting to Emma, tongue flashing between his lips which is absolutely distracting and, at some point, she should really figure out how endorphins works.

She figures they probably shouldn’t make her feel like her head is spinning.

She’s not a scientist.

“Good seats?” Killian asks. Emma blinks. And laughs. “Ok, I know they were good seats. I...that’s common courtesy, Swan.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“It is. You catch any foul balls?”   
  
“We were in a suite.”   
  
He blushes, running a hand through his hair and Elsa makes a noise that’s both judgmental and a little unfair, all things considered. Emma wonders if the endorphins in her body will do her a real solid and make sure she melts into the floor.

“That’s a very good point,” Killian admits. Elsa’s eyes are like tiny, little pinballs, bouncing and appraising and Emma rocks forward because she wants to walk forward and, maybe, make out with Killian Jones, third baseman for the New York Yankees, but her brother is still on the opposite side of the baseball spectrum and there are rules and regulations and probably contract issues because that’s how it always works.

He’s probably dating someone in New York anyway.

He’s a catch.

Or so Mary Margaret would say.

Emma bites her lip.

“So, uh…” Elsa starts. “I’ve got a ton of work that I was ignoring today--”  
  
“--It’s Sunday afternoon,” Emma interrupts, but her jaw feels like it actually snaps in half and Elsa is _way_ better at glaring than she is.

“Yup, and I’ve got a lot of work that I didn’t do. But would you look at that, you’re kind of on vacation! Isn’t that weird? Weird. It’s weird.”  
  
“Weird.”   
  
“Exactly. So, I’m going to go and…” She waves her hands through the air, the threat of a far-too-confident smile tugging at the ends of her lips. “I’m going to leave you guys….to it. Where’s that fancy team person? Can they make sure I don’t get yelled at by security?”   
  
“Or arrested by mounties,” Emma adds.   
  
“That’s not how Canada works. Thanks again for the tickets, Killian. It’s a very long game.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s kind of baseball’s schtick,” Killian mutters. He’s still staring at Emma.

The team person appears suddenly, like she’s been summoned there by the sheer force of Elsa’s almost _too_ obvious will, and Emma can’t remember the last time she took a deep breath.

It’s only kind of uncomfortable – especially when Killian moves first and his fingers are rough when they brush over the back of her wrist.

“You need, like, a manicure or something,” Emma mumbles, drawing a scoff out of him and a groan out of her and that is the _last_ thing she expected to say.

“I’m not sure that would really help, actually.”  
  
“Don’t you wear baseball gloves?”   
  
“Not all the time.”   
  
“Rebel.”   
  
He nods, and it’s like the world gives them a second to catch their breath and figure out what’s happening and it’s all impossibly slow and far too fast and Emma sighs against his mouth when he kisses her. Or she kisses him.

It honestly does not matter.

Because she’s been thinking about this for far longer than she’d ever be willing to admit and he’s as good as it as she figured he would be, or maybe the other way around because he kind of groans against her mouth when her fingers find the back of his hair and oxygen is pointless anyway.

They’re an out-of-breath mess by the time they finally break apart, eyes wide and shoulders heaving and Emma isn’t entirely sure when they decided to occupy the same few inches of spaces, but her right foot is on top of his left.

Killian doesn’t seem to mind.

“God, I’ve wanted to do that forever,” he whispers, and Emma wonders if anyone has ever survived after their whole soul has kind of just imploded in a fit of happiness and finally.

“Are you kidding me?”  
  
Killian makes a noise in the affirmative, another quick brush of lips over hers and they’ve probably scandalized the team worker. “I’ve got some very fond memories of a flower-bearing deity who refused to believe I was as funny as I absolutely am.”   
  
“Oh, my God.”   
  
“You think I’m funny, Swan, I know you do.”   
  
“Your ego knows no bounds.”   
  
“It’s a contract year, I’m just trying to prove my worth to the franchise.”

Emma presses up on her toes, the nerves in his voice almost reaching out and slapping her or inadvertently hitting her in the batter’s box and that, at least, is kind of cyclical. She’s not sure when she’s become the _positive one_ , but Mary Margaret will probably appreciate not having to bear the brunt of it all anymore.

“No need,” Emma mumbles, mostly against his mouth and the words get a bit jumbled when Killian’s hand finds its way under the hem of her shirt. “But, like, really since the morphine incident? You were super high.”  
  
“And still had eyes, strange as that may seem.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian echoes. “I like you. I was trying to show off today.”   
  
“I mean, it kind of worked. You want me to write like a letter of recommendation to Brian Cashman or something?”

His laugh is loud and easy and Emma tries to make sure it imprints itself on her memory. And she’s so goddamn happy that they’re as good at making out in visiting team’s facilities as she hoped that she almost forgets her brother is going to kill her because she’s dating the enemy. And he’s really good at hitting baseballs.

That is, of course, before the August series in Boston and the Yankees are three games out of first and the whole thing is as chaotic as it is exciting and Emma can’t stop fidgeting in the family box at Fenway.

“What’s going on with you?” Mary Margaret asks. She’s got head-to-toe red on, David’s number painted on her face like the entire city of Boston isn’t almost _painfully_ aware how in love they are, and Emma’s surprised she didn’t make a sign.

The series is that important.

Killian’s on a six-game hitting streak.

Emma’s not supposed to know that. And no one is supposed to know she went to New York three weeks ago. There was kissing. Like. Just a copious amount of kissing.

Maybe that can happen again after the game.

She wonders how quickly she can get away from her brother. And out of this Red Sox gear.

“What is that?”

Emma jerks her head up, and she didn’t even realize she was _doing_ it. That should be the subheadline of her life at this point. It’s not really anything – she keeps telling herself, has to remind herself almost daily because it’s _absurd_ and sentimental but he’d driven in five runs during that game in New York three weeks before and his bed was absurdly comfortable and Emma made some crack about _getting the bonus just to keep this mattress_ and Killian had kissed her silent; before asking, with slightly hooded eyes in a voice that she certainly still wasn’t thinking about, if she’d maybe, possibly, consider wearing the ring he always kept around his neck. Even during the season. ESPN had tried to do a feature on it.

Killian wouldn’t talk about it.

“It was, uh….it was my brother’s,” he explained, and Emma was going to do permanent damage to her lip from biting it. It didn’t make much of a difference. She cried anyway.

And she’d known about Liam, had heard the stories and the goddamn tragedy of it all, but she’d never seen Killian without that ring on a chain around his neck and it was probably only a matter of time before the New York tabs realized it.

“For good luck,” he said. He smiled. Emma kept crying. And kissed him. He hit a triple the next day. She kind of figured that was for her too.

She’d started tugging on it, though, unconsciously or subconsciously and the specifics of it don't matter, especially in the family suite at Fenway with Mary Margaret doing her best impersonation of a relationship-scouting hawk.  

“Emma,” she says. “What is that?”  
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“You’re going to want to try that again if you want me to believe you.”   
  
“It’s nothing.”   
  
Mary Margaret shakes her head, gaze falling on the ring that’s now hanging _over_ Emma’s shirt and this is a disaster. David hasn’t even thrown the first pitch yesterday – that’s a very strange sentence she’s not certain she’ll ever understand, and just the day before he was complaining about Killian’s hitting streak while Emma was texting Killian updates about it under the table in the apartment in Back Bay.

“It’s not,” Emma continues, but talking is only making it worse and Fenway gets impossibly loud during Yankees series.

“It looks new.”  
  
“It’s not.” Emma grits her teeth when she realizes what she’s said and she’s given Mary Margaret fuel - fed the eagle as it were. They’ve missed the entire first at bat already. “Did he strike him out on three pitches?” Emma asks, the pride practically radiating through the suite. Someone’s already humming _Sweet Caroline_ under their breath.

“He’s in some kind of zone,” Mary Margaret says. “Was sitting on the couch yesterday after you left, honest to God, practicing his grip on his cutter.”  
  
“That’s insane.”   
  
“Nah, that’s a series against the Yankees when the pennant’s on the line.”   
  
“It’s August.”   
  
“On the line,” Mary Margaret repeats, emphasizing every word and Emma can’t get her response out because the boos are that distracting. She’s a little disappointed it’s an away game because that means there are no pinstripes and Killian Jones looks _unfairly_ good in pinstripes, but Emma figures that’s honestly for the best.

Mary Margaret has evolved into some kind of basset hound anyway – sniffing out lies and deflections and however endorphins work. Emma ignores the weight of her stare, pulling her lips behind her teeth and David throws a strike on the first pitch.

“Practiced the hold on that cutter all night,” Mary Margaret mutters.

“It’s not like he doesn’t know who he’s pitching against.”  
  
“Ah, that’s not exactly what it is.”   
  
Ball one. And two. And Killian steps out of the box, David’s shoulders going obviously tight when he calls time. Emma’s lungs are on fire.

She hopes the endorphins can fix that eventually.

“I don’t understand,” Emma admits, and strike two is swinging and definitely outside and she knows Killian’s frustrated as much as she knows David is overjoyed.

The boos get louder.

“It’s a Yankees-Sox series,” Mary Margaret shrugs. “Us and them. And, I mean, you know that history.”

“Between franchises?”  
  
“Between David and Killian Jones.”   
  
Emma’s pretty impressed her legs don’t actually buckle but she does have to brace her hands on the glass in front of her, and she’s not sure if she imagines Mary Margaret’s gasp or not. Killian flys out. David fist pumps.

The whole thing is epically absurd.

“What does that mean?” Emma asks, as the next Yankee hitter lines out to short and it’s a quick inning and she should probably be happier about that. She probably shouldn’t have come to the game at all. “Like baseball enemies?”  
  
“Of course not.”   
  
“Because that’s even more ridiculous than practicing a hold on a cutter David learned when he was eleven and--”   
  
“--Emma, oh, my God, seriously, what is going on with you? And don’t say anything, you’re like...shaking.”

She is. Her whole body is vibrating, nervous energy and excited energy and she’d suggested dinner at a restaurant near the Yankees hotel so she could get to the Yankees hotel easier and she wanted both teams to win.

That was impossible.

God, they should have told David already.

“What are you talking about?” Emma challenges. The Red Sox already have someone on second. “What do you mean David and Killian have a thing.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s eyebrows defy gravity. “Killian?”  
  
“That’s not weird. We know him. We met him. We brought him flowers!”   
  
“Like...six years ago.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And, nothing, I guess. Just, you know, David’s a pitcher and Killian’s a great hitter and Vandy did win the SEC when he came back that year and then he got drafted ahead of David--”   
  
“Because the Yankees didn't need a pitcher. David would have raged if he got drafted by New York.”   
  
“That’s not necessarily true.”   
  
“Would you like to try again?” Emma asks, and she has to shout the question over the cheers and they’re winning. Or the Red Sox are winning. She’s not sure where her baseball allegiances lie anymore. That’s definitely the most ridiculous sentence she’s ever thought.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Mary Margaret says. “So maybe David’s unfairly biased against New York teams, but you know him and Jones...they’ve always kind of...just toyed with each other. And he feels bad about hitting him still, but that was years ago and now they’re in the same Division again and, you know, this series is important.”  
  
Emma doesn’t respond. She does not trust herself to.

So she takes advantage of complimentary food and drink and the general hospitality of the family suite at Fenway and she digs her nails into her palms so she doesn’t cheer when Killian hits a three-run homer in the top of the eighth to give New York the lead.

The hit streak sits at seven games.

And the Red Sox lose the series opener.

“Can you believe I end up with a no-decision now?” David grouses, hours and post-game press conferences later and he’s already ripped apart the pre-meal bread like it’s the reason people still care about win-loss records.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Mary Margaret says. It’s not the first time. It will not be the last time.

“Still a Cy Young contender,” Emma adds.

David’s going to get arrested for his attack on the entire bread industry. “It’s not about individual awards, Em. It’s about this series and holding our lead and--”  
  
“--The race for the pennant.”   
  
“Yeah, exactly that. And making sure they’re as far away any sort of trophy as possible. God, you know how obnoxious Jones would be as a World Series champion? Totally insufferable. Perfect for New York of course, but just...that can’t...God, he’s so good at the plate, you think he won some kind of genetic lottery?”

Emma knocks her glass over. Her elbows suddenly want to make a run for the nearest exit and there’s wine on her jeans and her ring is back over the front of her shirt and she nearly sends her chair into the very nice looking couple next to them when she mumbles a quick apology and bolts onto the sidewalk.

And, really, she shouldn’t be surprised that he’s sitting in the lobby across the street because they did say some time around nine’ish and he’d always been ridiculously good at reading her and knowing her, even when he was hopped up on painkillers and twisted in an uncomfortable hospital bed.

“Swan?” Killian calls, already halfway out the door and he makes a face when the first three cars in the street don’t immediately stop so he can cross.   
  
He jogs towards her, post-game tie loose around his neck, which seems kind of unfair, but it makes it easier to tug and pull him towards her and they’re so _goddamn_ good at kissing each other. He startles slightly at the force of her mouth on his, but it takes less than a full second for him to just sort of _melt_ into it and Emma’s feet are only kind of touching the ground when he pulls her closer to him.

They linger in each other’s space for what feels like a very long eternity, fingers drifting and tracing and Emma almost forgets about her wine-jeans until Killian’s lips drag across her jaw and she shivers.

Someone nearby whistles.

“You want to tell me what this is about now, love?” Killian asks.

“I honestly have no idea. Just like...series-inspired insanity and did you know that my brother thinks of you as some kind of baseball frenemy and possible scoring threat?”  
  
“No to the first one, but definitely yes to the second. As he should, really, you see that homer today?”   
  
“I was there.”  
  
“Cheering?”   
  
“Trying very hard not to.”   
  
Killian chuckles, a kiss so quick it barely registers. Emma knows they’re on borrowed time. It was inevitable that the troops would rally or something equally ridiculous, and she can hear the footsteps behind them, but Killian’s fingers are still moving and his ring is around her neck and--   
  
“I love you,” she says, certain and sure and at the worst possible time.

He nearly drops her.

“What?” Killian breathes, David behind him and making a sound like an umpire just missed an obvious strike call. “Swan…”

Emma shakes her head, pressing her lips together and the next few moments are a blur of explanations and the phrase _I wasn’t really expecting it_ repeated several dozen times. David’s expression doesn’t change, even when some kid in his jersey stops him to ask for an autograph and glares pointedly at Killian.

“We’ve evolved into complete farce now,” Emma grumbles, and she’s not sure she’s entirely prepared for the look on Mary Margaret’s face. Like she knew all along. Like she knew as soon as they walked into the goddamn hospital room.

She shrugs. “I had some suspicions when I saw the distinct lack of ring when he was jogging the bases and you called him Killian like that was a thing you’d been doing.”  
  
“And you guys have been…” David starts, trailing off when Killian’s arm tightens around Emma.

“No, no,” Emma sputters. “No...that just kind of…”  
  
She cuts herself off, biting her tongue in the process and her eyes don’t do anything except meet Killian’s slightly cautious smile when he steps in front of her. “Hey,” he mutters, thumb ghosting just under her lower lip and she’d never moved the ring back. “I love you too.”   
  
Emma’s dimly aware of David’s rather loud _too_  but Mary Margaret shushes him and the whole thing still feels kind of cyclical.

And like hitting a bases-clearing double in the bottom of the ninth.

“Yeah?” Emma asks, an absurd response to declarations in the middle of the sidewalk, but that’s kind of them and kind of this and she wants to ignore baseball for the foreseeable future.

She wants to focus on the force of Killian’s responding smile instead.

“Yeah,” he nods. “I kind of thought that was almost obvious. I’ve pining for awhile.”  
  
“Before Toronto?”   
  
“Way before Toronto.”   
  
“Wait, Toronto?” David shouts. “What happened in Toronto?”   
  
“Not anything you actually want to know about,” Emma promises. “You going to be weird about this? Like...for the rest of the season or your careers?”

“More weird than your wine incident?”  
  
“Is that what happened to your jeans?” Killian nods, and Emma blushes because he was totally checking her out. David groans.

“I’m not going to be weird about this,” he promises. “I mean...I’ll totally wreck you at the plate if you do something stupid, but our set-up guy is garbage anyway and you’re on that ridiculous streak. It was only a matter of time before you played hero.”  
  
“And probably tried to impress Emma,” Mary Margaret mutters.

Killian tilts his head. “It’s more likely the second one.”  
  
“Figured.”   
  
He takes a deep breath, still twisted and in front of Emma with her finger hooked through one of his belt loops. “I may be a little weird about it,” Killian admits. “We’re totally coming for your divisional title. Wild Card stresses me out.”   
  
Emma laughs, some of her nerves evaporating and his chest is very solid when her head crashes against him. She’s fairly certain he mumbles _I love you_ in her hair again and she smiles into his shirt, something that feels like a pitching rhythm and striking out the side. She needs to stop making baseball puns in her head.

They go inside the restaurant eventually – after another Boston fans yells _get back to New York, Jones_ from the other side of the street – and Emma manages to keep all her wine in her glass for the rest of the evening. And the Yankees don’t win the Division, but they win the Wild Card game and Emma doesn’t sit down for any of the six games the ALDS lasts.

They win the series in New York.

She’s wearing pinstripes.

David’s only a little annoyed by that.

“I told you I was going to support whatever city I was in,” Emma says, and he rolls his eyes and Killian’s smile, somehow, gets wider and Mary Margaret looks overjoyed. She has since August.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” David grumbles. “Easy now with just one All-Star to root for.”  
  
“Your words, not mine.”

Killian kisses her. There’s a photo snapped somewhere behind them, but that’s become fairly normal in the last few weeks because it only took a few games for the New York tabs to realize he wasn’t wearing the ring and start speculation on the location of the ring and Emma was sitting along the first baseline when someone in a throwback Devil Rays jersey three seats away noticed the ring hanging over the front of the Jones t-shirt she was wearing.

They weren’t very subtle about it.

They actually planned it that way.

“What’s that you always say, Nolan?” Killian asks. “It’s not about the personal accolades, it’s about the team and the trophy.”  
  
“Agh, wait at least twenty-four hours after my season ends before you start taunting me with my own quotes, huh?”   
  
“That seems fair. Doesn’t it, Swan?”   
  
Emma nods, still charmed and happy and she’s got a good feeling about the rest of the playoffs because no one expected a Yankees run and she’s got World Series aspirations. Killian Jones, third baseman of the New York Yankees and World Series champion does, after all, sound pretty good.

It looks even better, a playoff run for the ages with an improbable sweep in the ALCS and a hit streak that ESPN claims is _legendary_ and the New York tabs dub _the rivalry over_ when Emma, David and Mary Margaret are spotted cheering in the team suite in the Bronx.

She doesn’t cry when they win, but she might when Killian kisses her, feet off the ground and arms slung around his neck and there’s not enough oxygen in the world to help Emma say everything she wants to.

_Everything_.

So, naturally, Killian says something to surprise her, because Emma’s not sure how she got on the field without security yelling at her.

Probably because they were distracted by David signing copies of the goddamn _New York Post_.

“When’s your lease up?” Killian asks.

“What?”  
  
“Your lease?”   
  
She has to blink three more times before she understands, and then she kisses him instead of answering him, and that’s kind of an answer anyway. “Yeah,” Emma says. “Yeah, that’s what i want to do.”

He signs his contract extension the same day she signs the lease and Emma keeps wearing Yankees gear and Red Sox gear depending on what city she’s in, but her allegiances become a little more obvious when she gets a slightly different ring.

That makes the New York tabs too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai there internet. I apparently have a lot of baseball feelings and words for @distant-rose. This is for her. As part of the [ The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon). I'm still taking prompts through the end of August and putting them here because I'm real lazy and didn't want to make a new thing on Ao3. 
> 
> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	22. Back in the Swing of Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes at the beginning this time because this is still part of [The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon) but it's a sequel of sorts to [Sliding Down the Hill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858121) which was my Little League World Series AU from last year. You don't have to read that, but it may help, so I figured I'd throw some links up here. 
> 
> As always, I'm on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) and down to flail or chat and shamelessly promoting the real life words with original characters I wrote.

“Like that?”  
  
Killian glances down at the laptop screen and it’s probably impossible to see what he’s trying to look at. It’s very sunny out. Emma briefly considers believing that’s a sign, but they’ve been in the backyard for _days_ and Henry keeps asking _like that_ like either one of them is qualified to answer the question.

They’re not.

They’re woefully unqualified to answer the question and maybe they should just hire a pitching coach. But that seems like taking it several steps too far and too official and it’s already kind of both because Henry’s a really, really, _really_ good pitcher and he should probably know how to throw more than just a two-seam.

And a four-seam.

Emma’s still not sure she knows what the difference is.

Killian might, but that may just be because he’s been staring at that laptop screen like it’s made of actual gold for most of the summer and Henry’s going to play fall ball in a few weeks. He has to. Apparently.

 _Baseball America_ says it’s a good idea.

 _Baseball America_ listed him as one of its top 100 prospects under sixteen three issues ago.

She may have cried over that.

Killian bought a frame for the cover.

And, really, it’s all good. And great. And fantastic. And a little overwhelming, but that’s less positive and possibly just Emma’s issue, because Henry keeps pitching and garnering headlines and Killian looks like he’s going to burst with pride every time they drive to a different baseball field and David’s fairly certain they’re going to _bring some pride back to New England_ or something. Emma’s not really sure what that means.

She assumes it’s because the Red Sox haven’t won the World Series in several years.

But now it’s almost the end of summer and Henry’s been playing for weeks and they’ve been driving for what has felt like several eternities every weekend and there’s only a few more days before school. So they’re back in the backyard, with the sun shining and a glare on the laptop screen, making it all but impossible to figure out what that one diagram says on the website Killian bookmarked.

He bookmarked it. To teach Henry how to throw a slider.

The thought makes Emma’s heart stutter and draws her eyes to the ring on her left hand because this is her life and this town is absurd, but maybe bringing some pride back to New England via fancy pitches would be kind of cool.

“Killian,” Henry prompts, tossing the ball and snatching it out of midair with the kind of practiced ease that will probably lead to the goddamn cover of _Baseball America_. “I seriously have no idea where to put my fingers.”

“That’s because the sun is trying to make sure I’m going blind,” Killian grumbles. Emma can’t quite stop her laugh, the smile on her face feeling as natural as anything and she should really tell Henry to put more sunscreen on.

She can only imagine the kind of teenage noise that would inspire.

“Maybe we should have printed out the instructions,” Emma suggests.

Henry catches the ball again. “Do we have a printer?”  
  
“No, but I do work in the sheriff's station where I believe printers are a requirement. Also Uncle David has one at his house because he’s old.”  
  
“Wow, Mom,” Henry chuckles, tongue flashing between his teeth and it’s so much like Killian that Emma’s not sure her heart is going to be able to last the rest of the summer. She’s glad they didn’t hire a pitching coach.  
  
“That was also kind of harsh, Swan,” Killian adds. He doesn’t look away from the laptop though, and there’s a furrow between his brow that’s equal parts endearing and concerning.

Emma shrugs. They don’t have any chairs in the backyard – they’d take up too much space and be in the way of quasi pitching clinics and they’re rarely home on the weekends anyway. No one is BBQ’ing at the Swan-Jones house.

That’s why David’s around anyway.

She sits on the ground instead, pulling her legs to her chest and resting her chin on her knees and she’s not sure if she imagines the quirk of Killian’s lips, but it’s kind of nice anyway, particularly when the furrow gets deeper.  

“It’s absurdly hot,” Emma reasons. “And we’ve been out here forever. Also we have to go buy school supplies at some point. You can’t show up to tenth grade without, like, I don’t know...pencils.”  
  
“Did you actually try to pick the most stereotypical thing?” Henry asks. He sits down next to her, a flash of a smile and the ball moving through the air and it can’t be good for his fingers to just keep catching it bare-handed.

Emma assumes keeping his fingers unbroken is crucial to a pitcher’s success.

God, maybe she should send _Baseball America_ an email with all of her questions.

“Do you use pencils?”  
  
“Do you think I don’t?”  
  
“That’s not an answer, kid,” she points out, reaching out to grab the ball, but it only manages to hit the side of her hand and Emma’s exclamation of pain is almost embarrassingly loud.

Killian spins, head jerking towards her with his eyebrows practically in his hairline and Henry’s shrill _mom_ sounds far too terrified to be entirely comforting. And, really, all things considered, it’s absurd to be charmed by both of those things, but Emma’s sitting on her own grass in her own backyard because _they bought a house_ after they got married and she’d really like to eventually sit in a suite at Fenway.

She assumes they give the mothers of starting pitchers a suite. With a chair. Probably more comfortable than the lawn ones they should maybe, eventually buy at some point.

“Swan,” Killian says, and it’s far too hot for how close they all are. He rests his hand on her knee, pulling the ball out of her grip and Henry catches it when he tosses it back. Of course. “Swan, are you ok? What happened?”  
  
“I have God awful hand-eye coordination, apparently,” Emma mutters. It’s enough to work a shaky laugh out of Henry which was mostly the point, but Killian’s eyebrows don’t move and none of this is going according to plan. _Baseball America_ seems to think high-school pitchers should have multiple options in their arsenal though, so here they are, and Emma was the only one who thought the use of the word arsenal was incredibly weird.

She’s going to demand a one-on-one meeting with the editor of _Baseball America_.

“Guess I broke the genetic mold, huh?” Henry asks. He’s laying down now, limbs splayed out and the ball keeps coming dangerously close to his nose every time he tosses it in the air.

Emma clicks her tongue. “You want me to buy you pencils for school or you want to just, like, I don’t know...some kind of threat about school supplies.”  
  
“It kind of loses it when you know you’ve still got to buy me school supplies, Mom.”  
  
“Did you ever learn about genetics or is that just more teenage angst?”  
  
“More like a teenage pun, right?”

“Do not push your luck, kid.”  
  
“And,” Killian adds, still crouched in front of Emma with his hand leaving some kind of emotional brand on her knee. “Please stop letting the ball fall so close to your face. It’s freaking me out.”  
  
Henry catches it again, hand whipping through the air quick enough that it’s little more than a blur, which is good because Emma can’t focus on anything except the _feel_ of it all and the _hope_ of it all and a league named after Mickey Mantle that David found personally offensive.

They didn’t go back to Williamsport, but they won _again_ and Emma cried _again_ and Killian didn’t coach, but he cheered louder than her and the laptop was probably going to die soon.

It kind of feels like everything stills for a moment, though, as if they’ve all held their collective breath on a 3-2 count with the bases loaded and two outs and there’s probably a one-run lead just it make it as dramatic as possible.

Killian’s hand doesn’t move, tightening slightly and Emma’s sure he can hear her lick her lips. His gaze stays on Henry – waiting and wanting and some other word that starts with ‘w’ that the kid will probably learn if they ever buy him some goddamn pencils and let him go to school.

David’s certain he’s going to get drafted out of high school.

The thought leaves Emma’s head spinning.

“Sorry,” Henry mumbles, a weight to those few letters that’s far too heavy. He’s still laying in the grass. God, they should mow their lawn.

They have a lawn.

Killian’s eyebrows finally relax, the tension almost visibly lifting off his shoulders and it’s all _blue_ and _smirk_ and _teasing_ when he snatches the ball from Henry. They’ve developed quite a collection over the last few years – pinching them from games when they probably weren’t supposed to, but you can apparently buy plastic cases for a few bucks off Amazon and Mary Margaret is nothing if not determined to help _document_ every moment and every victory and Emma can’t ever bring herself to say no.

Not when it gets Henry’s face to do _that_ thing, like the sun is rising and he believes he’s going to play baseball for the rest of his life with an incredible signing bonus because both Killian and David are adamant _being a left-hander is going to make all the difference_. They’ve both read too much _Baseball America_.

And bookmarked websites to teach Henry how to throw a slider.

“It’ll be incredibly difficult to pitch if you give yourself a broken nose,” Killian continues. Henry’s whole body shakes when he laughs.

“C’mon, give me at least a little credit. I won the genetic lottery of hand-eye coordination that Mom didn’t even enter.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groans. “That didn’t even make any sense. Also, you are on some seriously thin ice here, kid. You want to learn this pitch or you want to melt out here, mow the lawn and probably get grounded?”  
  
“That was kind of harsh again.”  
  
Henry glances at Killian, lifting his head up as if he believes he’s going to get some support of him, but all he gets is a rather pointed head shake and a fastball grip that Emma doesn’t realize she knows until that very moment.

She might be getting better at this.

Henry sighs, collapsing back in a heap. “I really don’t want to mow the lawn.”  
  
“Then let’s keep the sass to a league minimum, ok?”

“If I mention that that joke didn’t really make sense either, are you going to ground me?”  
  
“Probably not,” Emma admits, and it’s not the most authoritative moment she’s ever had, but she’s kind of busy melting and worrying about her laptop’s internal temperature and she’s fairly certain there’s no food in their house. Maybe they can bribe David to BBQ if they show off Henry’s slider grip.

“It’s because we’re cooler parents,” Killian grins. “And you’ll sign for way above the league minimum anyway. Left-handed out of the bullpen, that’s--”  
  
“--Aw, c’mon, you really don’t think I can start?” Henry interrupts.

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what it sounded like.”  
  
“It’s not,” Killian promises, and Emma has to close her eyes and press her lips together so she doesn’t laugh because it’s an argument as old as anything else they’ve all come to share together.

Argument isn't even really the right word. It sounds absurd to suggest they’re arguing over professional contracts, but they kind of are and she knows Killian believes Henry can do absolutely anything – even out of the bullpen.

Henry hums, lips tugging up and Killian’s eyes get bluer. Emma’s positive. Emma might be going insane. Her laptop is going to turn into some kind of technological puddle on the back steps.

“I bet if Boston had a left-handed reliever they probably would have made it out of the Divisional series last year,” Killian says.

“Ah, that’s cheating.”  
  
“Yes, it is.”  
  
“And you’re right.”  
  
“Yes, I am.”  
  
Henry laughs, shoulders shifting and, at some point, he and Killian have started tossing the ball back and forth. “Wow, no more discussion, huh? Just totally know you’re right?”  
  
“Confident,” Killian corrects. “In your ability to win Boston a series.”  
  
“Don’t jinx it.”  
  
“Impossible.”  
  
Henry’s silent for a moment, the undeniable _confidence_ in Killian’s voice seemingly lingering in the far-too-humid air around them and for half a second he looks worried he’s said too much. Emma knows that’s not true.

Because he coached that team in Williamsport and cheered louder, even when Henry’s jersey touted a New York Yankee, and he’s going to teach this kid a goddamn slider if it’s the last thing he does.

Which, honestly, it might be since it’s so absurdly hot out.

Henry practically beams.

There’s more solar energy coming off him than the sun – and _The Storybrooke Gazette_ claimed the sun was doing historic things that week.

“The Sox could definitely use a lefty,” Henry agrees, sitting up and finagling his fingers until Emma knows he’s going to throw a curveball. “As long as we don’t totally dissolve into stereotypes and start referring to me as a southpaw.”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “Perish the thought.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok. So, uh, you really think I can throw a slider? Not just because you’re already planning the ticker-tape parade--”  
  
“--Do they use ticker-tape outside of New York?” Emma asks, and both Henry and Killian groan loudly at her question.

“Swan, we don’t talk about New York success here. That’s against the rules.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“No baseball metaphors or bad jokes and no positive words about any vaguely successful New York sports franchises.”  
  
“I mean, that’s kind of what you’re doing now.”  
  
“Mom,” Henry whines. She grins.

“Tell me some kind of academic and genetic fact.”

“Something, something Punnett squares.”  
  
She glances at Killian – who is doing an admirable job of not smiling _too_ much – and Emma hopes the heat she can feel in the pit of her stomach is directly related to that record-breaking sun and not her actual son and she is on a roll.

“He’s not wrong, love,” Killian shrugs. He winces when he grabs the laptop, pulling it by the top of the screen and decidedly ignoring Emma’s objections to that. “That’s how genetics works, right? We just draw a square and then...someone’s got blue eyes instead of green.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s how it works at all.”  
  
“Ah, but can you dispute it?”  
  
“You’re far too fond of playing Devil’s advocate.”  
  
Henry laughs, loudly and easily and that happens regularly. “I think there’s more to it than that.”  
  
“This was your fact, kid, if you’re going to lie about it, you’ve got to be upfront.”  
  
“It’s not a lie. I just think Punnett squares are more complex than generic eye color.”  
  
“But can you explain it?” Killian asks, and Henry, somehow, blanches under the tan that is very likely going to linger into November. “That sounds like a very resounding no. We should get you some pencils at some point, yeah?”  
  
“And like...maybe some notebooks. Possibly one binder.”  
  
“One?” Emma echoes skeptically. “God, are we out here letting you be that kid with one binder for all of his subjects? Really dropping the parent ball there.”

“That was another bad baseball pun,” Henry says, doing an almost admirable job of avoiding the question.

“We’re buying you a binder for every subject. And dividers and like...nice pens.”  
  
“Nice pens,” Killian chuckles. His eyes are back on the laptop though, hand held out expectantly as he tries to move his fingers like he’s gripping something that isn’t there.

“Yes. Nice pens. Not those hundred-pack ones that barely even write anything. And then Henry can take notes with legible handwriting and we’ll all learn what a Punnett square is.”  
  
“And maybe learn how to throw a slider?” Henry asks.

“If you promise not to be the one-binder kid anymore.”  
  
He huffs, something that sounds like _takes forever to get back to my locker_ , but Emma narrows her eyes slightly and Killian shakes his head again and they’re a one-two punch of parental authority and having a house with a backyard and Henry knows a losing fight when he sees one.

There’s an analogy to be made about walking someone.

Emma bites her tongue.

“I promise not to be the one-binder kid,” Henry says. “Where am I supposed to put my fingers?”

It’s not a disaster.

Not really.

But it kind of drifts dangerously close to disaster type levels and they spend, at least, forty-two minutes staring at the same gif of Chris Sale until even Henry admits he can’t watch it anymore.

That’s probably the sign of the impending apocalypse.

“I just don’t….get it,” he sighs, gritting his teeth and glaring at the ball in his hand when it refuses to cooperate. Again.

“You’ve got the two-seam part down,” Killian says.

“Yeah, fat lot of good that’s done me. Where am I supposed to put my index finger?”  
  
“Off-center,” Emma answers. The laptop is propped up on her knee, the best way to see instructions and avoid Chris Sale’s pitching motion in gif form without threatening to burn herself with her own electronics. It’s getting hotter. She’s positive.

“And another finger along the seam of the ball,” Killian adds.

Henry groans again, chewing on his lower lip because they’ve done this way too many times already. His pitch doesn’t look like Chris Sale. It looks good – they all look good, Emma promises, but she’s not _Baseball America_ or part of the Boston Red Sox front office and Killian keeps muttering _still looks like a fastball_ from his designated position as almost-catcher.

“The outer-third,” Emma continues. Henry sounds like he’s growling. “And this thing claims you’ve got to hold your wrist a certain way.”

He stares at her – wide-eyed and disbelieving. “I know, I know,” Emma mutters. “All of pitching is based on your wrist and twisting and turning and I _know_ , kid. I’m just the bearer of the website news.”  
  
“That was almost funny, Swan,” Killian grins.

“Almost.”  
  
“Ok ok,” Henry says sharply, tapping his thumb on the side of the ball. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw and it’s far too _adult_ and far too _professional_ and Emma’s eyes flicker towards Killian on instinct. He smiles at her. “What was that part about my index finger?”

They go over it again – “The ball’s got to spin off your finger,” Killian says, for at least, the seventy-second time, and Henry nods like a bobblehead or a different giveaway at Fenway, and Emma is very likely suffering from heatstroke. – and Emma can only imagine what this is doing on Killian’s knees, but he never complains once. He just stays crouched there, gaze occasionally flashing to Emma and it’s just as blue as ever and just as meaningful as ever and Henry keeps throwing.

For hours.

Until the sun moves behind a few well-placed clouds and Emma has, admittedly, lost track of how long they’ve been out there when Henry lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a yell and a guffaw and the actual, audible sound of pure happiness.

Emma nearly throws the laptop off her knees.

It died an hour before anyway. She’s been reading off her phone.

“That wasn’t a two-seamer,” Killian says slowly, shaking his hand when he lets the glove fall on the ground. Henry’s jaw is very close behind.

He lets out a shaky laugh, blinking quickly and it takes, exactly, four and a half second for the smile to practically erupt across his face.

“Did that look right?” Henry asks. His head is on a swivel, snapping between Emma and Killian and looking for confirmation and it’s definitely _joy_ when she nods in agreement.

“Slider,” she says. “Struck him out looking.”

He makes the noise again.

It’s better than any victory all summer.

“Definitely,” Killian agrees. “You want to try again?”  
  
Henry’s nodding before the question is even out of his mouth, and Emma’s not surprised, but she’s also kind of hungry and she should probably put the laptop in some kind of shade at some point. There are grass stains on her shorts when she stands up, hair matted to the back of her neck and they’re all going to have to take several dozen showers before they even consider going to the store, but she’s fairly certain there’s powdered lemonade mix in the cabinet and there should be some kind of post-slider celebration.

“With extra ice?” Henry asks, grunting out the words when he starts falling into a pitching rhythm. Killian grits his teeth on every catch.

“Yeah, of course,” Emma nods, and, honestly, she should have figured it would happen. Because learning the pitch wasn’t a disaster and even throwing the pitch was pretty damn good, but she’s standing at the sink and trying to remember if they have one of those comically large spoons to mix an entire pitcher when she hears the crash.

She moves to find a small pile of glass just under the window in the laundry room, Henry red faced and Killian looking a little exasperated with the glove stuffed in the back pocket of his shorts.

That’s really enough to quell any of Emma’s anger.

She wasn’t ever angry to begin with.

“I was gone for two seconds,” she laughs, resting the pitcher on her hip and it’s actually kind of difficult to hold three plastic glasses in one hand.

“One pitch, one mistake, Swan,” Killian says evenly. It only makes her laugh louder. Henry’s suddenly fascinated by his sneakers.

“Kid, how’d we end up with the glass? And where were you aiming?”  
  
“I mean, obviously not there,” Henry mutters.

No wonder he was one-binder kid last year. Emma can’t stop laughing. She’s the worst authority in the world. That doesn’t bode well for her job and the criminal population of Storybrooke.

There’s not really a criminal population of Storybrooke.

That’s how she got away with weekends off almost all summer.

“You want to try that one more time?”

Henry sighs, shuffling his feet and he can’t toss the ball because it’s somewhere in the laundry room now. Emma widens her eyes – and doesn’t object when Killian pulls the lemonade out of her hands.

“Not really,” Henry says. “But, uh...I guess I lost my grip and--”  
  
“--And threw a fastball that I’m very certain was Kimbrel-esque straight into the house,” Killian finishes. “Probably hit triple digits.”  
  
“Can you compliment me after I broke the window?”  
  
Killian shrugs. “Seems like I just did, huh?”  
  
“I mean...a little. That’s kind of nice.”  
  
“I’m fairly certain you weren’t trying to wreck the window. We should buy a velocity gun. You think they sell those at Staples with the binders and fancy pens for drawing Punnett squares?”  
  
“Wait, wait,” Emma says, two pairs of slightly cautious eyes darting her direction like she’s going to discipline either of them. She smiles. “Isn’t Kimbrel the one with the freaky windup? Why are we trying to be like him?”  
  
Killian kisses the top of her head. It’s probably disgusting. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Mom,” Henry grumbles. “It’s not freaky. It’s intimidating! He’s unhittable!”  
  
“You heard it here first, Swan,” Killian whispers, and her whole body shakes against him. She fits very well there. He’s still holding lemonade.

They’re going to have to call someone to fix that window.

“But he is right handed,” Killian continues. “So it does circle us back around to being the left-handed hope of the Boston Red Sox’s future Series success.”  
  
“Good alliteration,” Emma says.

“Always better at English than science. Although something, something….chemistry.”  
  
He ignores Henry’s exclamations when he ducks his head to kiss her, lips finding hers with practiced ease and normalcy and the kind of intimacy people who share a backyard and responsibility for fixing broken windows have. Emma slings her arms around Killian’s neck, pressing up on her toes to make this easier, or worse, if you’re Henry, but he’s finished half the pitcher of lemonade by the time they break apart.

It seems like an even trade.

That’s another baseball pun.

Kind of.

And it takes less than a full minute for them to realize that there is no one in Storybrooke qualified to fix their window after seven o’clock on a Sunday night.

There’s no food in their house anyway.

Mary Margaret doesn’t look surprised when they show up, opening the door before Emma knocks. She can already feel the air conditioning.

“You got some kind of weird sixth-sense that we were on our way over here?” Emma asks.

Mary Margaret pulls the one bag out of her hand. “Heard your car. And I’m basically law enforcement anyway.”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s really how it works, M’s.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“We got a little presumptuous with our Fenway reenactments.”  
  
Mary Margaret blinks, but that’s as long as it takes for her to understand and David’s hysterical in the living room. There’s a Sox game on. “Of course,” she says. “Fastball or curve.”  
  
“Slider,” Killian says, and Mary Margaret’s eyes widen slightly.

“Really increasing that pitching arsenal, huh?”  
  
“Why do you know the terminology, M’s?” Emma asks, moving out of the way when Henry starts yelling about JD Martinez and whether or not Mookie should win the MVP. David apparently disagrees. Killian kisses the top of her hair again.

“I read. And maybe got a subscription to _Baseball America_.”  
  
Emma’s knees wobble. She’s not sure if it’s because she hasn’t eaten in awhile or is exhausted by her time spent in the sun or the way Mary Margaret worries her lower lip between her teeth like even the thought of subscribing to _Baseball America_ isn’t the nicest thing in the world.

Except maybe Killian bookmarking that website.

She’s never going to get over that.

“Yeah?” Emma asks.

“Yeah.”  
  
“Henry broke a window and we’ve got no food.”  
  
“And can’t turn the AC on when the window is broken,” Killian chips in. “So, uh--”  
  
“--We’ve got food,” Mary Margaret promises. They do. David BBQs and the Mookie versus Martinez debate is one for the baseball and summertime ages, but Killian keeps holding onto Leo and _that_ does something ridiculous to several of Emma’s biological systems and they go buy school supplies together the next day while some guy Robin knows fixes their window.

Henry and Killian practice the slider for the next few months, and he starts throwing it when he’s named the number one starter for Storybrooke High’s varsity baseball team that spring and all those years later, on a giveaway day at Fenway Park that’s her own kid in bobblehead form, Emma watches him throw a slider ninety feet away from home plate.

Out of the bullpen.

“All about the grip and the wrist,” Killian mumbles, half to himself and half to Emma and it’s difficult to breathe. There’s a scientific reason for that, she’s sure, but it might also just be how much she wants and how much she’s already got and they spill popcorn all over the suite floor when they leap to their feet, the batter at the plate frozen for a called strike three.

“Got ‘em,” she shouts. “Got ‘em!”

Henry fist bumps, a quiet confidence as he walks off the mound and Emma’s not sure if she just wants him to look up at them, but she’s, like, at least ninety-two percent positive he does. Batting .400 or something.

Some kind of baseball pun.

Killian kisses her. And they put the bobblehead next to the _Baseball America_ cover, the one sent to Mary Margaret and David’s house years before, that touted Henry as _the kid who’s going to put New England baseball on the map_. It’s hanging in the laundry room.

Next to the A he got in sophomore science.

It just seems to fit there.


	23. Wrap Around Your Dreams, Part One

She’s honestly not sure what to do first.

There are so many options. And not enough options. There are too many things to break and too many things she has to organize and Emma’s mind can’t seem to land on a single thing, flitting from one piece of paper to the next and David’s lurking just outside the edge of her vision which is, honestly, only kind of infuriating and she probably should consider taking a deep breath.

Even witches need to breathe.

“Emma,” David says cautiously, the floor creaking traitorously under him when he moves.

She shakes her head. “Don’t. Just...don’t.”

“It’s not your fault. None of it has been your fault.”  
  
“What did I just say?”  
  
He flashes her a wry smile, not much more than a quick twitch of his lips and she nearly breaks the chair when she crashes into it. That would almost be ironic – the chair wasn’t on her list of things she was planning on breaking. But after the last few months, with the death and the injury and the distinct lack of answers all piling up like they’re there just to torment Emma, she’s fairly positive breaking the vaguely ancient chair possibly made out of enchanted wood sitting behind her desk would make sense.

Emma Swan is not a very good witch.

She’s not bad, per se, she can do basic spells and brew a handful of potions without having to look up the reason for certain ingredients. She’s even got a certain instinct that helps her, particularly when solving crimes in Storybrooke, the tiny nook in the corner of downtown Manhattan that houses some of the world’s more magical sort.

No one knows it’s there. That, of course, is the point. They’re a quiet bunch, magical folk, usually keep to themselves and don’t ever leave Storybrooke, partially because they can’t and partially because that’s just the way it’s always been and, mostly, because the rest of the world absolutely would not know what to do with witches and wizards and a whole family of werewolves that own the one diner and make an absolutely fantastic pot of coffee.

It’d freak out the rest of the world.

And it’s Emma’s job to make sure the rest of the world remains decidedly unfreaked.

She sort of stumbled into the position, friends with David and his wife, because no one knows how Emma Swan got to Storybrooke. The story goes that she just showed up, but Storybrooke doesn’t attract many visitors and it was quite obvious she had magic as soon as the first person tried to pick up her bassinet and she blew them off her.

More or less.

She’s not a very good witch. She’s all emotion and feeling and no concern for anything outside the moment because, as far as Emma is concerned, the moment is the only thing that’s ever mattered. But now there’s more death and more destruction and if Mary Margaret doesn’t come back soon and tell them if any of the goddamn birds at the town line saw anything Emma is certain she’s going to scream.

She doesn’t have time for that.

Or emotions.

And Mary Margaret can talk to goddamn birds.

“Here,” David says, crouching in front of Emma’s slouched body. There’s still a smile on his face and a mug in his hand that wasn’t there before, steam coming off the top and the distinct scent of chocolate and cinnamon and he’s always been very good at getting her to calm down.

It probably has something to do with growing up at opposite ends of the same hallway.

Emma sighs, but there’s no animosity in the sound and she’s glad she didn’t destroy the paperwork. That just would have meant more work and more filing and she’s going to end up sleeping at her desk again, she knows it.

“I didn’t even feel you do that,” Emma mumbles. David’s pushes the cup into her hands.

It’s not totally normal – being able to feel another person’s magic. It’s usually a byproduct of love or companionship or some deep-rooted devotion to another magical creature. Emma can’t always feel David when he does something, usually can’t if she’s being honest. She isn’t. At least not often because it’s depressing and reminds her that she was found on the side of the road with magic roaring in her veins and no one able to tell her where she came from or what she was and Emma hoards every single _feeling_ like they’re the only ones she’s ever going to get.

Sometimes though...sometimes she can feel it, the power and the surge of emotion and it’s almost like leaning towards an open flame, warm and comforting and _everything_ in the way that home is supposed to be, safe and sure and….

She didn’t feel it just now.

She tries not to sigh again.

“It’s not your fault, Em,” David whispers, ignoring whatever face she undoubtedly makes in response. “We don’t...we don’t know what this thing is or who it is--”  
  
“--The fact that you used what before who gives me pause.”  
  
“I’m starting to lean that way.”

Emma blinks. The hot chocolate burns her tongue. “How do you figure?”

“There were scratch marks on the wall at this one. They haven’t been there before.”  
  
“Scratch marks,” Emma repeats. “Where? In the front room?”  
  
David shakes his head, moving his hand through the air when Emma’s grip on the mug goes slack. It disappears before it hits the ground and she doesn’t feel that either. “No, no, in the back. They were uh...well, the dwarves were out in the front room and you were talking to Ruby, but I swore I could…”  
  
He trails off, eyes going distant and cautious and Emma wills the magic in her veins to calm the _fuck_ down. It sings in her ears, taunting and obnoxious and practically screaming at her that she’s teetering just on the edge of control. Because the three dead dwarves they found that night are just the latest in a string that’s getting more and more gruesome and more and more troubling and David said _what_ before he said _who._

“You could what?” Emma prompts.

“I could feel it. The, uh, the magic. I could feel the magic in the back room, like it was calling to me or something.”  
  
“Calling to you?”  
  
David shrugs. “I don’t know how to explain it, Em, but I had a feeling and I don’t think those dwarves died in the front room.”  
  
“You think someone moved them? Your clawed monster?”  
  
“I never said monster.”  
  
Emma bites her lip, the stack of papers on the corner of her desk flying across the office. And nearly hitting Mary Margaret square in the face. “Ah, shit,” Emma mumbles, slumping further into the chair until her feet brush against David’s shins. “Are you ok?”  
  
“Fine, fine,” Mary Margaret promises. She doesn’t sound it, though, and David looks a little worried that Emma is going to spontaneously combust in the middle of the station. “Are you?”  
  
“Aw, c’mon, that’s pointed.”  
  
“You look a little….you know.”  
  
“I really don’t. Did you get the intel?”  
  
“Super official,” David mumbles, eyes flashing when Emma glares at him. He finally stands up, slinging an arm around Mary Margaret’s shoulder and tugging her against his side and he’d been far too worried about letting her talk to the birds.

Like he knew exactly what had attacked those dwarves.

And ten other Storybrooke residents – three witches, and one soothsayer and two fawns and a dryad and the three other people Emma can’t remember now because she’s the absolute worst and exhausted and kind of terrified.

She’s not sure what to do next.

“I got the intel,” Mary Margaret answers, an evenness to her voice that’s a little off-putting and slightly forced. Emma lifts her eyebrows. “It’s, uh, well….it’s not great.”  
  
“What could possibly be worse than a serial killer that leaves no clues--”  
  
“--Except the claws,” David interrupts, and Emma glares again and Mary Margaret swats at his chest and there are footsteps in the hallway.

Emma throws up her hands, defenses on full alert and hackles rising if she had hackles, but she doesn’t have time to double check with Ruby and she should stop almost killing her friends. Elsa jerks back when she notices the lot of them – David standing a bit straighter than normal and fingers pointed towards the ceiling and Emma’s arms outstretched and Mary Margaret’s chin jutted out slightly.

“That’s terrible form, Emma,” Elsa chastises, and she’s totally right.

Emma groans. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“And good evening to you too.”  
  
“It’s like...three in the morning.”  
  
Emma’s never going to go sleep. She might as well move some of her clothes into the one cell they have – she’s been getting the most use of it and the mattress really isn't all that bad when she’s tired enough. She’s been tired enough every night for the last three weeks, since there started to be an obvious pattern to these deaths, but now there are claws involved and intel from birds and Emma’s lived with magic her whole life, but it all still sends her reeling.

She’s not a good enough witch for this.

Her form is god awful.

“That’s just semantics,” Elsa says, and there’s an energy around her that makes it blatantly obvious she’s used magic recently. Emma’s going to sprain her eyebrows in unspoken judgment. “Alright,” Elsa mutters. “Don’t look at me like that. I am helping you.”  
  
“How? You’re not part of Storybrooke law enforcement.”  
  
“And Mary Margaret is.”  
  
“I think she’s got you there,” Mary Margaret smiles, and this is neither the time nor the place for jokes. She’s started picking up Emma’s paperwork, though, so it kind of all evens out. “Did you see anything?”  
  
Elsa nods.

“See what?” Emma demands. “What the hell were you two doing? Elsa, you can’t just be wandering around when we’ve got dead dwarves and this thing is lurking in shadows and having claws or--”  
  
“--Wait, it’s got claws?”  
  
“I don't know, ask David. This is serious! I can’t be worried about you guys when I’m already worried about what’s going to happen next and where it’s staying in Storybrooke and--”  
  
“--It’s not,” Elsa cuts in, and Emma doesn’t know when she stood up, just that her knees give out again.

“What?” David asks sharply. His hand falls on Emma’s shoulder, an attempt at comforting that hits the mark at the same time it also feels a little oppressive and Mary Margaret’s eyes should not be that wide.

The birds outside are chirping. Loudly.

Elsa nods slowly, the look on her face lingering close to the terror Emma is only a little worried has taken up root in the pit of her stomach. “Explain,” she says. “Where were you?”  
  
“Ruby called me,” Elsa answers. “She, uh….she said she had a bad feeling about what was going on and that Mary Margaret was going to go commune with the birds and you had a look on your face and--”  
  
“--There are three dead dwarves in body bags,” Emma snaps. David’s hand tightens. She fists her fingers, nails digging into her palms to temper her magic and her whole body feels like it’s on fire. Elsa’s face doesn’t change. “Alright, alright,” Emma mumbles. “I know you know that, so Ruby’s got a feeling and some werewolf sixth sense and?”  
  
“She was worried about Mary Margaret going out on her own.”  
  
“She’ll have to get in line behind David for that.”  
  
“You know I can take care of myself,” Mary Margaret mutters.

“Anyway,” Elsa continues. “I went out along the line to see if there was anything there while Mary Margaret was talking to the avian community and they saw something. So I...investigated.”

Emma’s head snaps towards David’s, her own expression undoubtedly mirrored on his – disbelief and something that looks a hell of a lot like anger and worry. “You didn’t think to call us?” David asks sharply, Elsa shrugs.

“I can take care of myself. And he was gone anyway.”  
  
“He?” Emma repeats, and this is far too much information at once.

“Well, that’s a general commentary on it, but it was a he before he disappeared.”  
  
“These half explanations are getting really old, really quickly.”

Elsa groans, but Emma knows it’s because she’s nervous and the birds definitely saw something and she should have looked in the back room. She has no idea what could be a man and not and have claws. Unless…

But that’s impossible.

Emma clicks her tongue in frustration when no one says anything else and she can hear Mary Margaret’s inhale when her gaze moves back towards her. “Alright,” she says slowly. “Please try and remember not to turn us into frogs because it’s going to be difficult to ask Regina for help when we’re amphibians and--”  
  
“--Out with it, Mary Margaret!”

“The birds said he left Storybrooke.”  
  
Emma clenches her jaw, biting down on her tongue and she’s going to do permanent damage to her palms, nails leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake when Elsa tries to pry apart her fingers. “You’ve got to keep breathing, Em,” she whispers.

David waves his hand and there’s a glass of water in his palm, cold as soon as Elsa’s fingers brush over the edge.

Emma nods dumbly, but her mind is racing and no one leaves Storybrooke. No one gets into Storybrooke. It’s impossible. There are spells and enchantments and protections and none of this should be possible.

Storybrooke is a safe haven for magical creatures. And Emma’s letting them die. One by one.

“It’s not your fault,” David says again.

“You’re making me reconsider the frog thing,” Emma warns. “How is this possible and where do you fit into it, El? Did you see him leave?”  
  
“No, no, the birds did. That’s how I know he was a man and then he wasn’t.”  
  
“That makes no sense.”  
  
“Emma, you’re a witch.”  
  
“It sounds insulting when you say it like that.”

Elsa laughs, soft and uneasy and it makes the hair on the back of Emma’s neck stand up. “It’s not,” she says. “But the birds have no reason to lie, right, Mary Margaret?”  
  
“None,” Mary Margaret guarantees. “And especially not to me. They said they saw him leave the dwarves house and it was...human’ish. But then he got to the town line and something changed. He shifted, somehow, like he was blurring out the edges and changing and one moment he was there and the next he was gone.”  
  
“I went to see if there was any sign of fight at the line,” Elsa explains. “If he was trying to pull apart the enchantments there, something would have shown. There would have been signs of a struggle, that’s...that’s powerful magic out there.”  
  
It was – designed by Regina Mills, the mayor of Storybrooke and one of the most powerful witches in the western hemisphere and even Emma felt _something_ when she walked along the line, a pulse and a beat and it always made her anxious.

Like it was trying to draw her outside.

She never told anyone that.

“I take it there wasn’t anything there,” Emma ventures, Elsa shaking her head before she even finished the sentence. “We all know this is impossible, right? No one can get out of Storybrooke without possibly losing their magic. That’s how it works. The human world can’t cope with us.”  
  
“This doesn’t seem to bother our shapeshifter,” Elsa shrugs.  
  
“You think that’s what he is?”  
  
“What else could he be?”

Emma exhales, pushing her thoughts into the back corner of her mind because they’re impossible and improbable and don’t bode well for the citizenry of Storybrooke if she’s right. She’s not a very good witch, anyway. She’s probably wrong.

She’s got to be wrong.

“It’s as good a working theory as any,” David reasons. He’s never moved his arm away from Mary Margaret, a cautious glint in his gaze that Emma’s mind doesn’t entirely appreciate. “Let’s get some sleep, ok? No more unauthorized patrols by the line, no more communing with birds, no more talk of shapeshifters. We’ll get some more statements from the houses around the scene tomorrow. Deal?”  
  
Elsa and Mary Margaret nod, but Emma doesn’t move. “Em,” David continues. “C’mon. You can’t stay here tonight. It’s not healthy.”  
  
“Three more dead, David. Three! And we’ve got no idea when this guy is going to show up next. Or what he even looks like. Shapeshifter kind of opens up the possibility of everything.”  
  
“Working yourself to the point of exhaustion is not going to change that.”  
  
“I’m not exhausted! I sleep sometimes.”  
  
“Where? Your desk?”  
  
“And the cell.”  
  
“Aw, Em,” Elsa sighs, but she waves a dismissive hand through the air and several other stacks of paper immediately topple over. Emma curses half a dozen deities.

“Come home,” Mary Margaret pleads. She doesn’t mean Emma’s tiny apartment a few blocks away from the station, she means her and David’s two-bedroom and the thought is appealing for the few seconds that Emma forgets she didn’t feel any of David’s magic that night.

Emma smiles, the movement not reaching her eyes and it feels a little mean when Mary Margaret spent the last hour talking to birds, but she’s got far too much energy and far too much magic in her and she needs to do something.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “I’m just...I’m going to do some thinking for a little while.”  
  
David opens his mouth to object, but both Elsa and Mary Margaret stop him, and neither of their smiles really ring true either. “Ok,” Elsa says. “Let us know when you get back home though, ok? Please?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Emma nods once, David clearly unhappy with the state of the current plan, but it only takes a few moments for their footsteps to stop echoing in the hall and the door to click shut behind them and she’s alone in the station with her thoughts and her magic and neither one are particularly comforting.

She sighs, running her hand over her face and pinching the bridge of her nose. She hates when her magic gets like this – out of control and expansive, like she can do everything and nothing all at the same time. It’s a frustrating state of being, wanting to control it all and certain none of it would work, like starting a fire that immediately bursts into an inferno.

It’s why Regina always ended every magic lesson with her hands thrown in the air and a scowl on her face and Emma’s got no idea what to do next.

She grabs a notebook a few feet away, flipping past half-thought out notes and to-do-lists and she’s halfway through the stupid thing before she finds a clean page.

“Alright,” Emma says. “What do we know? What do we know?”  
  
She twists her wrist, a pen in her hand and ink suddenly running down her forearm and there are not enough sighs in the world for her to properly express how absurdly frustrated she is. Emma glances around, but there aren’t any rags and she’s not going to wipe her arm on her shirt, even if there is already a blood stain there that she’s fairly certain will never come out, and she doesn’t really think before she drags her skin over the blank page in front of her.

“God, fucking--” Emma mumbles, blinking and focusing her magic and the ink is gone. From her skin, at least. It’s still streaked across the paper, and she’s got to scrounge for another pen that’s a different color because she’s nothing if not stubborn and refuses to find another notebook or flip a few more pages in.

That will, eventually, be her first mistake.

The magic is still thrumming in her ears when she starts to write –  _All the reasons this has to be a shapeshifter and absolutely, positively isn’t a demon_. “Oh God, that sounds insane,” she mutters, and crosses it out hard enough that the paper rips and that’s probably her second mistake. – and the list really isn’t that long.

There are seven points: no connections between the deaths, everyone magic, every fatality has had a partner of some kind, messy crime scenes, no sign of struggle, fatalities all over Storybrooke, one set of claw marks.

“And no suspect in sight,” Emma mutters. Her hair brushes across the page when she sighs, the magic there practically making the strands crackle and she has to close her eyes to keep it contained.

She raps her knuckles on her desk, pressing her tongue to the inside of her cheek and mistake number three is really her own doing. But she suddenly feels like every bit of energy has been forcibly yanked out of her, lungs feeling too small for her body and vision swimming in front of her and she’s as annoyed by it as she is petrified.

“It’s not a demon,” Emma announces to the empty station. She’s clearly dissolved into madness. Her fingers move, flitting through the air like they’re trying to touch something that isn’t there and she swears she can hear everything in the world.

It’s as if someone’s turned the stereo up, or switched to surround sound and it’s disorienting, but also like being awake for the first time.

It’s strange since all she really wants to do is sleep.

And forget how horrible those bodies looked.

“It was so much blood,” Emma whispers. “Like…like they were looking for something. Like they were...gutting them.”

Her foot skids out in front of her, tears in her eyes that don’t belong there. Emma doesn’t do that. She doesn’t have connections like that. She cares about Storybrooke, of course, but she doesn’t cry over _anything_ , can’t remember the last time she did or could or wanted to, and that last one isn’t really right because she doesn’t want this.

At all.

She wants to run away from this screaming and shouting and refusing to accept it.

This, whatever the hell it is, doesn’t seem to give a damn.

And her list is completely shot to hell – tears landing on top of ink streaks and lines drawn by the ends of her hair and Emma’s shoulders shift when she tries to take a deep breath.

“It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok,” Emma chants, as if saying the words will make her heart believe them. She keeps swallowing, biting back emotion and teetering on the edge of a breakdown. She’d learned about this once, witches and wizards who’d felt too much or done too much and their magic fought back, consumed them until there wasn’t any _them_ left, just the power and the energy and she wishes she’d gone home with Mary Margaret and David.

She wishes she had….something, someone, _anyone_ to tether her to the Earth.

There was so much blood.

Emma’s breath rushes out of her, eyes closed and it’s a surge she’s never felt before, an explosion of magic that she’s certain they heard in Morningside Heights, let alone the few square feet that Storybrooke takes up and she’s not entirely sure what happens until her limbs start to tingle and her lips go dry and her eyes dart back down to the notebook in front of her.

It’s the only thing that’s stayed on her desk.

There’s writing there that wasn’t there originally. And it’s not hers.

 **What We Know Already** **  
** **No reason behind it.**

**No marks left behind, just blood.**

**So much blood. Too much blood. More blood than should be in a human body.**

**Like they were looking for something.**

**No precinct help. It’s not just a slahser.**

Emma’s breathing through her mouth, oxygen yanked into her body in pants that are as loud as they are unattractive and she’s got to blink eventually or she’s sure her eyes will actually fall out of her head.

She doesn’t know if there’s a spell to fix that.

It’d probably freak Mary Margaret out anyway.

**WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?**

Emma starts at the sentence that suddenly appears in front of her, the words on the page there as if she’s the one writing them. She’s got no idea where any of her pens have gone.

**I didn’t write that other list. Is this a joke?**

“What the hell,” Emma muses, and she should probably get that tattooed on her forehead at this point. It takes her, approximately, four seconds to figure out what she’s done. “Aw, shit.”

Regina had mentioned it once, a powerful spell that, she claimed, was nothing more than rumor. “It opens up a connection,” she explained. “Let’s you build a link with another person. Communicate with them.”  
  
“What, like a phone?” Emma asked, earning an eye roll for her trouble.

“No, nothing like that. This is...it’s deeper. It’s fundamental. It’s impossible.”  
  
“So then why bring it up?”  
  
Regina arched any eyebrow, and Emma knew she had won. “Because I’ve heard it could open up communication with other planes. That you could cross the magical barriers with it, if the spell was powerful enough.”  
  
“That’s impossible.”  
  
“For you, maybe.”

Emma had never believed that – in the spell, at least. She knew she wasn’t powerful enough to create some mythical letter writing _thing_ , but the page was almost filled now and she still hadn’t taken a full breath.

**Is this Scarlet? It’s not funny if it is.**

She probably needs that air she just exhaled, but Emma’s lost control of any of her most basic bodily functions and there are still tears in her eyes. Her hand shakes when she reaches forward, grabbing a pen that she’s only a little concerned just appeared there, but the letters are almost eligible when she starts writing.

_I don’t know any Scarlet. And I can promise, this isn’t a joke._

**What the hell is it, then?**

_Your guess is as good as mine. You have a name?_

**The notebook wants me to give it my name? Wasn’t there some kind of advice somewhere about not telling anything your name if you couldn’t see where it kept its brain?**  
  
_Are you quoting Harry Potter at me, right now? Honestly?_

 **Seems almost apropos, don’t you think?**  
_  
Seems like a coping device, really._

**Ah, that too. Am I dead? Is that what’s going on?**

Emma barks out a laugh, wild and a little crazed and her eye dart around at the sound, nervous she’s going to draw the attention of several magical creatures. It’s as silent as ever in the station, though, just the quiet buzz of a fly somewhere and Emma’s eyes fall back to the paper when more words start to appear.

 **Is that what it is? That’s really disappointing. What are you...my welcoming committee?**  
  
_To what, exactly?_  
  
**I don’t know. The afterlife?** **  
**  
_Seems kind of macabre, don’t you think?_

**You’ve got a habit of answering questions with questions of your own.**

_Yes._

She likes to imagine whoever is writing in her magical notebook somewhere in the world laughs at the abruptness of her joke, but Emma figures that’s too much to ask of the world too and she’s not entirely prepared for the words that come next.

**Killian Jones.**

_What?_

**You asked my name. That’s my name.**

Emma gapes at the paper, and she’s going to have to find a spell to fix chapped lips because it can’t be good for her to keep breathing out her mouth like this.  
  
**This is the part where you tell me your name, love. That’s how it works. Even post-death.**

_I really don’t think you’re dead._

**How do you figure?**

_Well I like to imagine that people lose some of their sense of sarcasm in the afterlife and you appear to be drowning in it._

She really hopes he laughs at that one.

She should probably stop trying to charm the notebook.

**You’ve put some thought into how people act when they arrive in the afterlife? Look who’s macabre now. Does this have to do with your suspiciously similar to mine list?**

Emma inhales sharply, squeezing one eye shut like that’ll make the words disappear. Or, at least, make sure they make any sense. 

They don’t change at all. Figures.

**Still waiting on that name, o ye angel.**

_God, you’re the most frustrating ghost in the world, you know that_?

**I thought we decided I wasn’t dead.**

_And I’m not an angel_.

**I’ll admit that’s marginally disappointing. I’d still settle for your name.**

_Swan. Emma Swan._

It takes a few moments for the next words to appear and Emma’s not entirely certain what to do with the nerves flitting in the pit of her stomach, but they feel like butterflies and magic and his list was suspiciously like hers.

She should have paid more attention in Regina’s magic classes. She’s never heard of a witch casting a spell without actively trying.

Emma is the worst witch in the history of the world. That’s really, incredibly frustrating.

**Emma. It’s nice to meet you.**

_Is it?_

**That’s the part of the conversation where you say, it’s nice to meet you too, Killian. You’ll give a man a complex otherwise, love.**

_You’re talking to a notebook._

**Writing, if you want to be specific.**

_You’re doing a very good job of taking this all in stride._

**Oh, I’m absolutely not, but I assume it’d scare the angel off if I dissolve into the visual representation of my hysterics. And my interest has been piqued, after all.**

_In?_

**Why your list was so suspiciously like mine.**

It takes Emma far less time than it probably should to press the tip of her ballpoint, ninety-nine cent pen back to the page and she makes a mental note to tell David they should buy better pens at some point.

She exhales before she starts to write.

_I’m a...cop. Investigating a series of crimes in the area._

**You’re a cop?**

_That’s I just wrote wasn’t it?_

**Ah, but there was that frustrating dot dot dot. That’s distracting.**

_Why does it matter?_

**Killian Jones, NYPD Detective, at your service, ma’am.**

Emma doesn’t throw the notebook across the station. She sees that as a very particular type of victory. Her lungs, however, are taking one hell of an emotional and magical beating, air rushing out of her again and gaze flitting around like someone will appear and tell her that the whole, goddamn thing is a joke.

They don’t. Figures. Again.

“Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip,” she mumbles, and there is more handwriting on the paper. It’s a miracle they haven’t run out of space.

Or more magic.

Emma’s brain, honestly, cannot cope with that right now.

And she’s not sure how she knows, but his handwriting almost looks more cautious, like he’s realized he’s spooked her and would like to apologize in slightly slanted letters and precise spacing. He writes in a very straight line. That’s probably not important. Maybe. Emma’s got no idea what way is up.

Her lungs are going to rise up in revolt if she doesn’t start regulating her breathing soon.

She grabs the notebook, stuffing it into the bag on the side of her desk and leaving the station door unlocked behind her.

If it’s a goddamn demon killing all of them, the locked door isn’t going to make much of a difference anyway.

Emma doesn’t really sleep, but she didn’t really expect to and she does, at least, wait until an almost acceptable hour before knocking on Regina’s front door.

It’s one of the few actual houses in Storybrooke. This is, after all, still technically New York City and real estate is at a premium, but Regina is _Regina_ and no one was ever going to question it. She’d probably set them on fire if they had.

The door swings open mid-knock and Emma blinks blearily at the site in front of her. Regina isn’t wearing a pantsuit. She’s wearing something that might actually be leggings and a sweatshirt and there are actual, visible bags under her eyes.

“Is this a sign of the impending Apocalypse?” Emma asks. Regina is very clearly not amused.

“You came to me, Sheriff Swan. Knocking and pulsating and--”  
  
“--Pulsating?”

Regina eyes her skeptically, as if she’s waiting for Emma to agree to the original statement, but it’s just as confusing as ever and the notebook seems to gain several pounds in her bag. “It’s not just you,” Regina continues. “There’s...what did you do?”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything,” Emma says, but that’s as bad admitting to anything and she’s not surprised when Regina ushers her into the house.

“You’ve got to be quiet because Henry’s still asleep and I don’t want to answer questions more than once.”  
  
“Alright, well, that’s only kind of rude.”

Regina narrows her eyes, and Emma snaps her jaw shut. Her whole body feels sluggish, worn down from magic and death and pure exhaustion and she genuinely cannot remember the last time she ate.

“Sit,” Regina orders, nodding towards the couch in the corner of the room. “I don’t want to have to peel you off the floor either.”  
  
Emma grunts, but does as she’s told and the fabric is surprisingly soft under her hands. She could probably fall asleep there. “Now,” Regina continues. “What exactly brings both you and Sheriff Nolan to my home at such an early hour?”  
  
“David was here too?”  
  
“The questions, Emma.”

She grimaces, memories of last night and an NYPD detective who she’d spent several hours researching when her body desperately wanted her to sleep.

Killian Jones didn’t have much history to him, but Emma had always been very good at finding people and Mary Margaret thought she could enchant the internet. She couldn’t – she was just really good at nudging it the right direction.

He’d graduated top of his class from the police academy nearly eight years before, took the detective exam five years after and was responsible for some of the biggest takedowns the city had seen in years. He’d won awards, been quoted by several major publications and it seemed _The New York Times_ wanted to do some kind of piece a few months ago, but One Police had but a lid on that as soon as it was suggested.

Emma couldn’t figure out why.

“I asked a question,” Regina snaps, jerking Emma out of thoughts and questions and she didn’t check to see if there were more words in the notebook that morning.

Emma nods brusquely, lips pressed together. “Did David tell you that whoever killed those dwarves last night apparently disappeared?”  
  
“Straight through the wall or so he claimed the birds told his wife.”  
  
“That’s what Elsa said too. She said it was like the person was there and then they were gone. They seem to think it’s a shapeshifter.”  
  
“And you don’t?”  
  
“I don’t know what to think,” Emma admits, and she’s not really friends with Regina. It’s difficult to do that after years of magical lessons that ended with tears and disgruntled noises and storming out of the house only to have David make her hot chocolate out of thin air. But Emma trusts Regina, and she’s the most powerful witch she’s ever met or probably will ever meet and she doesn’t think this murderer is a shapeshifter.

Not with claws.

Regina shakes her head. “No, that’s not true, but we’ll let that lie for now.”  
  
And, really, in the grand scheme of magic and notebooks and how much goddamn blood there’d been on that floor last night, Regina letting anything lie is the _last_ thing Emma expects.

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Regina repeats. “Ask your question, Emma.”  
  
“Can anyone leave Storybrooke? I thought that was impossible.”  
  
“It should be.”  
  
“That’s not doing much to inspire a lot of confidence, Regina.”  
  
Regina shrugs, and maybe it is the Apocalypse. She looks worried though, in the kid of way Emma’s never seen before, and the expression is enough to give her pause. The magic in her veins moves so quickly it’s almost creating its own sound wave.

“It shouldn’t be possible,” Regina says. “The enchantments placed upon Storybrooke are for our own protection and the protection of the outside world. Humans aren’t ready for us and, quite frankly, we’re not ready for humans. It’s a give and take that maintains the balance of the entire universe.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But. There was a rumor. When I was just a girl, about a fairy who left Storybrooke.”  
  
Emma is very glad she’s sitting down. She grabs the closest pillow, squeezing it to her chest like it’s a lifeline and Regina’s smile almost feels disappointed. “How is that possible?” Emma balks.

“Love.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Love,” Regina repeats. “True love is the most powerful magic in the world, Emma. Any world. Even the human one. It’s enough to break through protective barriers and fuel the most powerful spells and it’s…” She shrugs again, lips twisted in thought and feeling and Emma hopes she doesn’t set the pillow in her hands on fire. “It’s enough to change everything.”  
  
“Ok,” Emma says slowly, trying to process any of this. “So what you’re saying is this fairy, she fell in love?”  
  
“With a human.”  
  
“That she never met?”  
  
“You’re poking holes in a story that I’m not even sure happened. You asked a question and I answered. Now, are you going to interrupt again?” Emma resists the urge to stick her tongue out. “That’s what I thought,” Regina smiles. “The fairy fell in love, left Storybrooke and was never seen of again. She was just gone. So, while it isn’t easy to get out of our little corner of the world, I’d imagine it’s possible if someone were strong enough. If someone loved something or someone enough.”  
  
“Like feeling their magic?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Emma hums, chewing on her lip and pointedly ignoring whatever it is Regina is doing with her face – passing judgment as loudly as if she’d said the words out loud. “So it’s possible for our murderer to get out of Storybrooke?”

“What did I just say, Emma?”  
  
“I’m trying to cover my bases, Regina.”  
  
“Consider them rounded several times. Yes, it’s possible. But, again, it has to be a very powerful kind of magic, true or--”

She cuts herself off and the dread in the pit of Emma’s stomach grows until it’s inching up her spine and clawing at the back of her brain and she knows it’s not a shapeshifter. “Or,” she repeats. “Or what?”

“A demon,” Regina whispers. “It could be a demon.”

Emma closes her eyes, letting the words sink into her consciousness and drag her down into the depths of her darkest nightmares and fears and they all heard the stories when they were young. Demons were old magic, ancient and horrid, feasting on feelings and wants and everything good in the world. They hadn’t been seen in a millennia though, nothing more than a whisper on the wind, a bedtime story and a threat – _don’t do that or the demons will get you_ – they weren’t real.

But witches weren’t supposed to be real either and Emma’s eyes darted to the bag at her feet and the NYPD detective who was missing several months from his resume for reasons she couldn’t figure out at five in the morning.

“Those are just rumors,” Emma accuses, and Regina lifts her eyebrows. “I don’t believe that.”

“It’s insulting to lie to my face like that.”  
  
“Why was David here this morning? He doesn’t think it’s a demon.”  
  
“That’s because he’s terrified of what a demon could do to us. He’s worried about you. And your tendencies to, apparently, sleep in the cells at the station.”  
  
“That’s only happened a couple of times.”  
  
Regina scoffs. “That’s far more often than it should be happening.”  
  
“Is that a note of care I hear, Regina? I’m touched.”  
  
Her expression doesn’t change, and it’s really one of Emma’s worst attempts at deflection. She licks her lips. “Why is your magic acting like that?” Regina challenges. “Like it’s on overdrive and racing towards something.”  
  
“I’m trying to find whoever is terrorizing Storybrooke,” Emma says, short answers and clipped tone and her shoulders ache from the tension there. “There’s no rhyme or reason to it. It’s not like the victims are connected to each other, they’re just--”  
  
“--Families,” Regina finishes. “And partners. Romantic pairings. Individuals who have a strong bond with each other. Ones who may be able to feel--”

“--True love,” Emma interrupts, and Regina nods once. She sighs, a rush of _everything_ and she’s certain her bag is going to fly into her lap and demand she look at the notebook at any moment. “You think the murderer is looking for true love.”  
  
“I think it’s a possibility. And so does Sheriff Nolan. That’s why he’s so worried about you. He thinks you’ll do something ridiculous because you don’t think you have any connection to this.”

Emma’s not entirely sure what noise she makes – an objection or agreement or just the audible sound of heartbreak because it feels as if her heart cracks in her chest. That may just be her ribcage. She pulls her lips behind her teeth, blinking quickly and pulling the magic into the center of her before she does something she’d regret.

“That’s not fair,” she whispers.

“But it’s also true.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
Regina nods, crossing the room and sinking next to Emma, close enough that their thighs brush. She doesn’t move to hold her hand though, just lets them occupy the same space and it’s suddenly easier to breathe and blink without threat of crying and Emma’s shoulders unclench for half a moment.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Emma mutters.

“It’s important to breathe,” Regina says. “It doesn’t last that long anyway.”  
  
“I was never good at that. Influencing others. Takes a kind of power I don’t think I’ll ever have.”  
  
Regina makes a contradictory noise in the back of her throat, and Emma’s brain cannot deal with more surprises. “I think you’ve got something else though,” Regina argues. “Some other strength that’s...I don’t know, it was always right on the edge, Emma. Like you were waiting for something to jumpstart it. I think it’s powerful, too, and it will define you.”

“I have...no idea what to do with that.”  
  
Regina chuckles, almost genuine. “I’m sure you don’t. And I don’t think it’s a shapeshifter that’s killing half our population.”  
  
“Ok, it’s not half,” Emma grumbles. “You really think it’s a demon?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
“Exactly. And I think it’s looking for true love.”  
  
“Why?” Regina stares at her in disbelief, frustration mingling with emotion in her gaze. Emma scowls. “Because true love is the most powerful magic in the world?” Emma asks, not surprised to be met with angry silence. “And...a demon would want to use the true love to...take over the world? Oh, shit, that’s it isn’t it? A demon in Storybrooke bolstered by the true love of magical people could do--”  
  
“--Anything,” Regina says. “They could do anything. And move in and out Storybrooke as if the enchantments weren’t even there. The entire world would be theirs.”

Emma doesn’t exactly run out of Regina’s house, but it’s pretty damn close. She makes it a few blocks before her legs decide enough is enough and she collapses in a heap of fear and want and that tingling in the back of her mind that hasn’t disappeared since she stopped writing in the goddamn notebook.

She yanks her bag towards her, threatening to pull the thing apart in the process and she might have stopped writing, but Killian didn’t.

**Swan.**

**Swan.**

**Emma.**

**Did I...I’m not sure what I said, love, but it’s almost more disconcerting when the magic notebook stops answering my texts.**

**Do you have a phone? Would that be easier?**

**Ah, damn, that’s probably too forward. I’m not exactly well versed in that. Anymore.**

**Shit, that’s even worse.**

**Swan, if you’re still there and get a break from welcoming other lost souls to the afterlife, I’d really appreciate a response.**

There’s a few lines between the final message and the most recent, and Emma wishes there was a timestamp on it. Magic has, clearly, failed her.

**If this was some twisted dream, I almost appreciate it. It was nice to know for a little while someone didn’t immediately assume I was crazy.**

Emma blinks. And blinks again. The words don’t change. And neither does her magic, as loud and distracting and _meaningful_ as ever.

 _I don’t think you’re crazy. The opposite, in fact_.

**Swan?**

_Present and accounted for._

**Oh, shit, God, that’s...so it wasn’t a dream?**  
_  
I don’t think so._

**What the hell is going on then?**

_I can, well, I can tell you that, but I need you not to freak out and then I need you to tell me why our lists were so suspiciously similar to each other._

Emma counts to ten in her head, and waits and hopes and she’s not great at any of those things, but the letters start to appear again and he keeps answering her. That feels important.

**About eight months ago, my fiancé and I were in our apartment, it was the middle of the night and something broke into our apartment. It all happened quickly, and I don’t really remember most of it, but there was a rush of something, like strength and power and I could feel it. I knew something was wrong and I told Milah to get out, but it was too late. The thing had already moved by me. It killed her before I could even move.**

_It?_

**I don’t think it was human.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got no concept of word count so there's more to this. Just keep clicking.


	24. Wrap Around Your Dreams, Part Two

Emma doesn’t fall over. She can’t. But she _wants_ to.  
  
She wants to scream and shout and stomp her foot and she’s never wanted David to appear with hot chocolate in his hand more than she does now, desperate for something that feels normal and comfortable.

Talking to Killian has felt like both.

**Swan.**

**This is the part where you remind me again how you don’t think I’m crazy.**

_I don’t._

**But?**

_How do you know there’s a but?_

**I’d really rather there wasn’t, but there usually is.**

_How many people have you told about this?_

**It was a homicide, love. The police did show up. So there are several far too thin reports regarding my opinion on the situation. Plus my very skeptical and concerned about my mental health partner. The...air when I regularly start screaming at it. And the therapist, of course. That was department mandated after the trauma I endured. And my brother.**

_You have a brother?_

She’s not sure why that’s important, but it feels _crucial_ and Emma has always been very good at feeling things. Her magic is instinctual.

**Were you looking for an entire life’s history, Swan? You offered an explanation for the magical notebook if I told you the reason for my list. I’ve held up my end of the bargain.**

That’s true. He has. And it’s more than she expected and worse than she expected and she wants to keep talking to him. She wants to know why a maybe-demon from the magical realm would believe it had to kill Killian Jones’ fiancé.

“It wasn’t true love then,” Emma mumbles, half to herself and half to the air around her and she needs to find David and Mary Margaret.

Her legs refuse to play along.

**Swan, seriously, if you’re ghosting me again, I’m going to make some very bad puns about the afterlife and your heavenly status.**

_Please don’t do that._

**A few answers then, if you’d please.**

Emma bites back her immediate retort – something about interrogation techniques and how he should reexamine his, but she realizes that’s both probably tacky and a little insensitive since his fiancé was very likely murdered by a power-hungry demon and she still has no idea why her magic sought _him_ out.

And she’s never told anyone she’s a witch.

She’s never had to.

The whole thing is kind of overwhelming. She has to find David and Mary Margaret.

**Swan. If this is an attempt to figure out how to describe the state of your wings or your halo, then I promise you that’s not necessary. I’ve seen pictures before.**

_I’m really not an angel_.

**Then...**

_I’m a witch_.

The page can’t be silent, Emma realizes that rationally, but it feels that way and she’s not going to have much tongue left if she keeps biting it.

“Say something,” she pleads at the notebook. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”  
  
**A witch? Like double, double, toil and trouble.**

_That’s a stereotype._

**And that’s not an objection.**

_What do I have to object to? I told you._

**That’s true. A witch is rather different than an angel guiding me to the afterlife, though.**

_Disappointing?_

_And you’re really not dead, I thought we’d covered that enough already._

**Not disappointing. Surprising, but...I mean I just told you I thought Milah was killed by some non-human entity, so I suppose in the grand scheme.**

_You’re still taking this very calmly._

**It’s a gift. Were you casting a spell? Is that how this...whatever it is, opened up?**

Emma stares open-mouthed at the notebook in her hands and he shouldn’t just be _getting_ this. It’s impossible and improbable and slew of other adjectives, but it seems like that kind of day and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want him to understand all of it perfectly and easily.

She’s a very greedy witch.

_Not on purpose._

**Should I be offended by that?**  
  
_Not at all. I’m not...my magical control is not the best, honestly. And it had been a kind of...emotional night._

**How so?**

She tells him. She knows she shouldn’t, is well aware of the line between human and magic and her hand cramps by the time she’s finished, but Emma does it anyway. She writes it out, every feeling and worry and the certainty that she’s missing _something_ and it’s somehow her fault and how she can’t fall asleep because she’s absolutely terrified of what she’ll see if she lets herself close her eyes.

She’s never told anyone that.

But the pen keeps moving and the paper keeps erasing every time she gets to the bottom line, like it wants her to continue and he doesn’t ever tell her to stop.

_I just wish I knew what to do or how to stop it._

**Far be it from me to give advice, Swan, but if it’s some ancient evil that’s hell bent on taking over the world, I’m not sure you can.**

_That’s less supportive than I was hoping for._

Emma imagines he laughs. Or smiles. She wishes she could see him. She shouldn’t, knows that rationally, because this is wrong and a mistake and it’s got to stay secret for Killian’s safety as much as hers, but her magic _found_ him and his goddamn list and she _wants_ in a way she can’t ever remember.

**That’s true. I’m sure you could use a little support now.**

_I just don’t know where to start. It’s been going on for months and people are starting to worry. They’ve got every right to. We haven’t made any headway at all, and there’s no trails, just the birds saying this thing turns into smoke or something._

**How magical of him. Did you say the birds?**

_I’m serious._

**I know you are, love, and I’m doing my best to keep my stride even, but it’s a few facts to process.**

Emma grits her teeth, but that’s fair. It’s more than fair. It’s...whatever that word would be, because he’s a human and _he’s got to be a human_ and she doesn’t even know him. She’s lost complete control of her life.

He’s writing again.

**Lucky for you, your magic sought out a very well accomplished Detective with a habit of cracking difficult cases.**

_No._

**What do you mean no?**  
_  
Exactly what those two letters mean when placed in that very specific order._

**Swan, I can help. I want to help. Hell, I think I deserve to help. If the magical notebook is going to find me and a case that I’m fairly certain is the same one you’re working on, then it’s my goddamn professional prerogative to do that.**

_No, it’s your emotional one. Why haven’t you been working recently?_

Silence. Notebook silence. And there are footsteps coming towards her.

“Damn,” Emma grumbles, refusing to meet David’s gaze when it tries to bore its way into the top of her skull. “If you look at me any harder, I’m going to turn to stone.”  
  
“That’d be an impressive bit of magic,” he says.  
  
“Seems to be catching around these parts recently.”  
  
“You talked to Regina?”  
  
“How’d you know that?”

He’s smiling when she finally looks up, but it’s a bit forced and they’re all going to learn glamour spells to get rid of the under eye bags they’re all collectively sporting. “Ruby saw you leaving. Said you practically ran out.”  
  
“Yeah, well, Regina’s got some very pointed opinions about our serial killer.”  
  
“We calling him that now?” David asks, dropping down onto the pavement in front of Emma’s outstretched legs and his fingers are warm when they rest on her jeans. There’s a travel mug in his hand. “You looked like you could use it,” he shrugs.

“That’s a sharp opinion.”  
  
“Nah, a nice round edge.”  
  
Emma chuckles, taking the thermos and sighing when the warmth of it all sinks through her, directly into stressed out and exhausted and nervous muscles. “Regina thinks it’s a demon.”  
  
“So she told me. I thought those were just scary stories we used to tell each other as kids.”  
  
“Do you believe her?” Emma asks, and she’s not sure why it feels like the biggest question she’s ever asked David, but he realizes it. His eyes widen and his lips part and he nods so slowly it’s actually difficult to see. “Yeah, me too,” she admits. “That’s...if a demon is coming from God knows where, trying to find True Love then thats--”

“--Decidedly terrifying.”  
  
“Yeah, just a little.”

David’s eyes haven’t returned to their correct size. And Emma’s heart appears to be trying to beat its way out of her chest and possibly get her to write in the notebook again and it kind of feels like the thing has a pulse of its own. That’s absolutely what Regina felt before.

That’s decidedly terrifying too.

Or it should be.

If Emma hadn’t just told a human she’s a witch hunting a demon. The same one he’s hunting.

She can’t let that happen.

“Mary Margaret’s not going to hide, you know that,” David says, pulling her back to the present and real and people she can actually see. People she absolutely loves. Now. People that matter.

Her bag falls over.

“What the hell was that?” David asks. Emma flexes her fingers, like that will move the magic or change the magic and she knows neither thing will work.

She might not be the best witch, but she’s not a stupid witch either.

“Nothing.”

She’s also a witch who’s awful at lying.

David blinks.

“Nothing,” Emma repeats. “And Mary Margaret’s got to hide. You both do. This is...if this is actually a demon, then he’s going to come after you two eventually. It’s a miracle he hasn’t already. That you two aren’t--”

She runs out of air before she can finish the thought, the words getting stuck in her throat and the squeak she lets out is both pitiful and disappointing. Emma falls forward, head colliding with David’s shoulder and her whole body moves when she cries.

He doesn’t let go of her.

That’s pretty much par for the course, magical or otherwise.

David mumbles some words in her hair, things that sound like _it’ll be ok_ and _we’ll find him_ and they’re all nice and encouraging, but they also fall a little flat because he knows as well as Emma how those stories always end – the demon always wins.

“If he hasn’t found us yet, maybe he won’t,” David reasons, leaning back to wipe away some of the tears clinging to Emma’s cheeks.

“You don’t know that.”  
  
“And you don’t know I’m wrong.”  
  
“That’s the most positive thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“Wait until you try and tell Mary Margaret we should hide, she’ll change your mind with the force of several thousand suns.”  
  
Emma lets a watery laugh, and there's no arguing with that. “Demons are smart, though,” she says. “He’ll figure it out eventually. And you two aren't just maybe True Love. Everyone else has been a possibility, that’s...I think that’s why it’s been so--”  
  
“--Bloody on scene.”  
  
“If you could avoid reading my mind for like a solid two seconds, that’d be stellar.”

David grins, a quick brush of his lips over Emma’s forehead and it makes her feel like she’s eleven and angry at Regina for a garbage magic lesson. “I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
“I mean, you’re not wrong. I think the demon is looking for something in the bodies. Some kind of proof or actual magic. Do you think that’s possible?”

“To pull someone’s magic out of their physical body?” Emma nods. David shudders. “I hope not. But if anyone could, it’d be a demon. No one’s entirely sure what they're capable of.”  
  
“Everything, or so the stories go.”

David kisses her forehead again. Emma assumes he doesn’t know what else to do. “Mary Margaret isn’t going to hide,” he says again. “She’s going to want to help. And this still isn’t your fault.”  
  
“Felt obligated to bring that up again, huh?”  
  
“Seemed like a good time. Even without the freaky almost-sibling mind reading thing.”

Emma smiles, real and easy and she clings to David without any sense of embarrassment. He holds her back just as tightly. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happens to you.”  
  
“That’s because nothing is going to happen.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“I know you won’t let it.”

It’s misplaced faith, but Emma knows there’s no point in arguing with David either and she kind of appreciates it and kind of needs it and she’s so goddamn selfish it’s a wonder anyone in Storybrooke listens to her.

David refuses to let her come to the station, jokes about _checking the bags under your eyes_ that aren’t quite as scathing when he’s sporting a matching set, but he keeps talking and promising and _even a demon wouldn’t attack two nights in a row, Em, they’ve got standards_ and she swats at his chest like everything is normal and calm.

There’s a magical notebook in her bag.

And, eventually, it works – when Ruby comes out of the diner with a bag of food and announces, in no uncertain terms, “I’ll get Granny to drag you home by the scruff of your neck if you don’t start walking, Sheriff.”

“Thanks for the food,” Emma mumbles.

Ruby winks.

It’s not far to her apartment, a few streets and cobblestones and Emma nods when people smile and wave, but her heart doesn’t slow down and she’s out of breath by the time she clicks the lock in her door.

She doesn’t eat the food. She falls asleep, a mess of limbs draped across her couch with her shoes still on and her jacket hanging off one arm. It’s good for a few moments, simple and calm and almost relaxing, but then there’s a flash of something and Emma’s not sure how long she was ever actually asleep.

It feels worse than it did before – the hint of a memory and a dream and the rush of power still coursing through her veins. She tries to hang onto it all, but the feel of it is drifting already, fog on the glass and smoke in her hands and a slew of other metaphors she absolutely does not care about.

Emma squeezes her eyes closed, desperate and anxious and she’s crying again, can feel the tears on her skin as soon as they land.

Blue.

She doesn’t remember anything except that. The flash and the power and the only thing she can remember is a burst of blue that might have been the sky or the ocean or--

“Eyes,” Emma breathes. “It was eyes.”

She nearly falls off the couch in an effort to get her bag, tripping over her own feet and dumping everything on the floor and there are words on the notebook page when she flips it open.

**Swan. I, uh...there’s no excuse for reacting the way that I did. You’re right. It’s not my case. Out of my jurisdiction as it were.**

_What color are your eyes?_

**Excuse me?**

_Your eyes._

**Are you going to ignore my apology? That doesn’t happen very often, love. I think that makes you a rather special circumstance.**

_An answer, Jones._

She hopes he smiles. She hopes. She hopes. She _hopes_.

**Blue.**

Emma drops the notebook.

**Are you really not hitting on me? Because that’s almost disappointing.**

_Are you flirting with me via magical notebook?  
_ _  
_ **It’s your magical notebook, love, not mine. I’m merely the recipient of your magic. Seems important, doesn’t it?**

It does. It seems like the single most goddamn important thing in the entire world, but Emma’s only slightly hopeful she’s still a cognizant person, so she’s not willing to put it in writing yet.

_That seems like another deflection._

**I’m absolutely flirting with you via magical notebook. It’s usually me default setting.**

_Really know how to make a girl feel special._

He draws a goddamn smiley face.

**No emojis in the magical notebook world.**

It makes Emma laugh. She’s still sitting on the floor. With no understanding of how to defeat a demon. She’s going to have to reheat that food from Granny’s.

**What are you going to do, Swan?**

_I have absolutely no idea. I...I’m sorry that you got involved in this. It’s, well, it’s technically against the rules._

**Am I your dirty, little secret now, love?**

_I really don’t think we know each other well enough for that. But no. Mostly just...contact between the magical realm and the human realm is frowned upon._

**Why’s that?**

_Most of them wouldn’t react as well as you did._

**Most of them didn’t witness some thing murder their fiancé in their own apartment.**

_Touché._

**And I resent the implication we don’t know each other. I know you’re rather determined and a little stubborn and I think you’re worried about someone.**

_You can’t possibly know all of that. We haven’t even been cursed twenty-four hours._

**I’m a curse now?** _  
_  
_I used a collective pronoun. I doubt you’ve really enjoyed your time here much either._

**There you go making assumptions again. Rude, Swan. It’s been interesting and admittedly surprising, but as you’ve pointed out several times, I’m not dead, so I still seem to be coming out ahead here.**

_You’re way too confident in your own humor._

**And my good looks, don’t forget that. You ever going to tell me about your deep-rooted desire to know the color of my eyes?**

Emma lets out a string of curses that would undoubtedly scandalize Mary Margaret and probably impress Ruby, waving her hand so the takeout bag on her coffee table flies towards her. She snaps her fingers and the onion ring container is perched on her knees, steaming as hot as if it had just come out of the fryer.

**I’ll take that as a no then.**

_Not everyone is as fast a writer as you. Also I was reheating my food._

**With a microwave?**

_Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer too._

**Swan, we’ve got to get you out of this cycle of assumption. I’m merely curious about what you, a self-proclaimed witch, would do with...what kind of food is it?**

_Onion rings and probably other things that don’t matter as much._

**See, I’m fascinated. A rapt audience. Who’s maybe looking for a little distraction from being more or less told to hand in my badge and gun several months ago when I started raving about that thing that killed Milah and am….**

He pauses for a moment, and Emma doesn’t realize she’s frozen until the onion ring pinched between her fingers threatens to burn her. “It’s ok,” she mutters, to the air, but also possibly to him and for that one second in her dream, when she saw the blue, she’d felt almost calm.

Like she’d been waiting for it.

**Desperate for someone to believe in.**

Emma barely catches the onion ring before it falls on the floor. It burns her tongue.

_That’s a considerable amount of pressure. We don’t know for sure that the two cases are actually linked. Demons are....a fairy tale. Horror stories for kids._

**I hate to tell you this, love, but you might be the fairy tale for most everyone else.**

She’s being charmed by the notebook. She’s flirting with the notebook. She’s probably delirious.

**And no pressure. Not really. It’s just...nice.**

_What is?_

**To talk to someone.**

Emma swallows, breathing deeply for the first time in _weeks_ and that’s probably a sign too, but she ignores it as well – she ignores the tears in her eyes too, the rush of magic simmering at the base of her spine and the ends of her hair, lingering in the back of her heels and the curve of her right elbow. It’s exhilarating and exciting and she wants everything and then some.

She wants to know every single thought Killian Jones has ever had.

No matter what metaphorical or literal demons are waiting for them in the shadows.

Emma’s not sure how long she sits, cross-legged in the middle of her living room, but she eats all her food and Killian asks ten times if she’s eaten all her food and it’s easy. It shouldn't be, but the words keep coming and the conversation never stops, a flow of words and writing and cramped hand muscles.

She learns his brother’s name is Liam and he’s also on the force, a captain in a different precinct who shows up at least once a week to make sure his **little brother, much to my constant annoyance** is actually going outside and not getting scurvy. And she learns that he loved Milah as much as he believed it was possible to love anyone, can’t imagine what he’s supposed to do now that she’s gone, but knows she’d be disappointed if she saw him now.

She learns that he loathes cauliflower, but would eat broccoli with every meal if that weren’t weird. Emma tells him several times it’s weird. He likes expansive, fantasy shows on premium cable networks and thinks butter on popcorn is over the top.

He draws another face when she tells him she puts malt balls on her popcorn – one with its tongue sticking out and it leaves her in something almost resembling a fit of giggles and smiles that are decidedly out of place all things considered.

He asks her questions too. Wants to know her favorite movie and what spell she’s best at and if she knows how to fly a broomstick. It’s _Casablanca_ and what David calls her _human lie detector_ and _that’s another Harry Potter reference, that doesn’t happen in real life._

They keep talking. For the rest of the night and the rest of the week and Emma keeps the notebook in her bag whenever she leaves her apartment, jotting down thoughts and moments and she really hopes they all make Killian smile.

She’s got some kind of irrational obsession with making Killian smile.

He’s thinking about asking for his badge back soon.

And there’s no more attacks, no threat of a single demon or the manipulation of True Love on a potentially global scale for weeks on end when Emma’s sitting in the station, feet propped on her desk while David’s on patrol and Elsa gapes at her like she’s looking at entirely different person.

“What’s going on with your face?” Elsa asks, far more blunt than Emma’s entirely prepared for. The pen in her hand freezes halfway to the page, Elsa’s eyes widening and smile spreading in slow motion and her feet sound impossibly loud when they move towards Emma’s desk. “What is that thing? Rubes thinks you’re charting moon cycles.”  
  
“That’s not what it is.”  
  
“Then share with the class.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Elsa blinks. “What?”  
  
“No.”

“Why are you keeping that notebook a secret? It’s not like I’m not aware of some of the details of the case. And that’s...we’re good now, right? No threat, no sign of the great disappearing shapeshifter. Nothing.”  
  
“It’s not about the case,” Emma says, wincing when she realizes the meaning behind her words. “Not really.”

“Not really.”  
  
“Repeating me is not going to get an answer out of me.”

Elsa’s lips quirk down, another opinion Emma isn’t interested in, and one of them makes a noise when she perches on the corner of the desk. “What will get an answer out of you then?”

Emma considers her options, and she knows she’s got plenty of them, could very easily tell Elsa to _get out_ , but she’s happy and, well, that’s it, really. She’s happy. She likes Killian. The shapeshifter is gone.

It wasn’t ever a shapeshifter.

“Have you ever had any contact with the human world?” Emma asks, gritting her teeth when Elsa’s foot slides out from underneath her.

“What?”

“Please don’t make me repeat it, it was hard enough to say the first time.”

Elsa shakes her head, jaw dangerously close to the floor. “I’m just, I don’t know, confused, I guess. You’re telling me you’re talking to a human? How?” For how long?  
  
“That’s a question for the ages, honestly.”  
  
“Emma, it’s not a joke.”

“I know it’s not,” Emma mumbles. “And, uh...a couple months. Since the dwarves murder.”  
  
Elsa’s eyes bug, but she doesn’t actually say anything, which, really, is pretty nice. Her eyes do flit to the notebook clutched in Emma’s hands though and it’s almost surprising the gears in her head don’t make noise when they start to turn. “Were you looking for a human?”

“No, no, of course not. I’ve never met an actual human in my life. I was, just, I was stressed and tired and David kept promising it wasn’t my fault--”  
  
“--It wasn’t.”  
  
“I know, but I was trying to organize my thoughts and my magic just kind of...reached out and found him.”  
  
“And his thoughts?”  
  
“You and David should have a mind reading competition.” Elsa chuckles lightly, but the smile on her face is tremulous and those gears are starting to grind. “What are you thinking?”

“That there’s got to be a reason your magic found him.”  
  
“He’s researching a case too,” Emma explains. “His fiancé was murdered.”  
  
“And that drew your magic?”  
  
“Possibly. And possibly because I’m like ninety-nine percent positive she was murdered by the same thing we’re dealing with.”

“Thing,” Elsa echoes, like she’s testing the word on her tongue and Emma barely has a chance to nod before she hears heels on the floor in the hall and there are spots of color on Regina’s cheeks when she skids to a stop.

“He’s here,” Regina says, and Emma’s breath catches in her throat and her blood runs cold and all those other metaphors she doesn’t have time for because she knows what’s coming next. “He’s going after Mary Margaret and David.”

Emma licks her lips, the sound of Elsa’s voice barely audible over the rushing in her ears and the roar of her magic and she has to move her hand or it’s going to fly off her body. “Em,” Elsa says again, nodding at the notebook she forgot she was holding.

“What is that?” Regina snaps, both Elsa and Emma waving her off because there are words on the page and the handwriting looks a little desperate.

**Swan. Swan. SWAN. What was that? I felt that. Emma. Are you there? You’re not asleep, love, it’s three in the afternoon. Answer the goddamn messages.**

**Swan.**

**Swan.**

**Emma, I am begging you. Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re feeling, please don’t do it.**

Her whole body is shaking, Regina and Elsa murmuring in the background and Emma can feel the push of their magic because they’re trying to keep the demon locked where he is and away from Mary Margaret and David and this isn't supposed to happen.

**Please, Emma.**

_I can’t do that. I...I love you_.

It’s not fair. It’s the complete opposite of fair, but Emma doesn’t have time to consider the definitions of various words and emotions that she absolutely means and she leaves the notebook on her desk when she runs after Regina and Elsa.

Ruby is crouched in front of David and Mary Margaret’s door as soon as they get there, snarling at anything that moves and there’s no sign of a demon, but Regina wouldn’t lie and Emma’s fingers feel like they’re radioactive.

“You’ve got to keep it together,” Regina warns. Elsa’s already trying to draw a barrier around them, muttered incantations and elaborate hand gestures and ice won’t protect them against a demon. “It’s not going to save them if you fly off the handle for whatever the hell just happened in the station.”  
  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emma seethes.

“Sure I don’t. Remember. You’re far more powerful than you realize, Sheriff Swan.”

Emma nods, stunned almost silent by the depth in those words and the sincerity in the sentence, but that only lasts as long as the first crack in Elsa’s ice barricade and he looks like a goddamn demon.

His skin’s a scaly green’ish, yellow with eyes that seem to know everything and loathe all of it, a disdain in the air around him that’s as potent as any scent Emma’s ever smelled. It makes her stomach roll. And the grin seems to slide across his face, threatening and knowing and the nails at the end of his hand aren’t quite claws, but they're sharpened to a point, ratty hair covering half his face.

Emma digs her heels into the ground. And hopes.

“You’re not welcome here, demon,” Regina says, voice strong and even and that hope grows. “You’ve tried enough and failed every single time. There’s no reason to think this time will be any different. You don’t belong in Storybrooke. You don’t belong on this Earth.”  
  
“And yet here I am,” he giggles. The smile is still on his face, even more unnatural than it had been before, like he’s leering at the lot of them, and one twist of his wrist leaves Ruby unconscious on the ground. “I’ll have no trouble going through all of you. It’ll be quite simple, in fact, but you do so love to act like you’re in control, don’t you Regina?”  
  
Emma watches the color drain from Regina’s face, jaw clenched and a muscle jumping in her temple. “Your magic is wrong, demon. It doesn’t belong here. And you won’t be able to take this True Love. The entire town will rise up to challenge you.”  
  
“Won’t be so easy then,” Emma adds.

The demon’s eyes flash towards her, a look she can’t describe, but would pay to never see again on his face. He takes a step closer, gaze moving across her like he’s doing inventory and the noise he lets out when he finds whatever he was looking for is nothing short of pure joy.

It makes Emma’s magic fall as heavy as a weight.

“Oh, you are a treasure, aren’t you?” the demon asks, laughter still clinging to his words. “I wasn’t expecting to find someone like you here, everything I’d seen about you made me certain you were quite worthless. What an absolutely delightful surprise.”

“Enough,” Regina hisses, but the demon just laughs again. “Leave this plane. Leave these people alone. The world will be better for it.”  
  
“You keep saying that, dearie, but you won’t ever say my name.”  
  
“I know the stories, that’s why.”  
  
“Power in a name, you know. Telling someone your true definition, the way you see yourself. How you want others to see you. It’s intoxicating; knowing someone’s name. Intimate, almost.”  
  
“Enough!”  
  
“Say it!”  
  
Regina shakes her head, eyes wide and breathing ragged and Emma wishes she didn’t scream when she collapses next to her. The demon bobs on his feet, exuberant and victorious, clapping quickly like a child that’s beaten the latest round of the most popular video game.

“Now what shall we do about you?” he asks, taking another step closer to Emma. “As I said, I really wasn’t expecting much out of you, but now...oh, now there’s something different isn’t there? Power previously untapped and a little unexpected.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Emma mutters.

“Ah, it’s rude to lie my dear. And you’re not very good at it, after all. Oh, I can almost see it, right there in your mind’s eyes. All those unspoken desires and dreams, things you’ve finally started letting yourself imagine because you thought it was absolutely safe to. Tell me, dearie, does he make you feel safe?”  
  
“Stop it.”  
  
“Do these people? The ones you’re so quick to defend, do they make you feel safe? I don’t see them out here protecting you. But that’s why you dream isn’t it? To be wanted. To have someone to talk to.”

Emma gasps, another mistake and another miscue and the demon presses his tongue to the corner of his mouth. “Got you there, don’t I?” he asks. “That’s alright. All lonely people want that. But you’re rather confused aren’t you?”  
  
“What?” Emma asks. She doesn’t want to ask the question, but she’s got him talking and projecting and maybe Elsa can get into the house behind them.

“Your young suitor. The one you’re thinking about. Ohhhh he’s not exactly what you expected at all, dearie.” The demon giggles again, tongue darting out and eyes bright and Emma wants to curl into a ball and look anywhere else. She bites her lip. “Not nearly as human as you thought he was. And, now, I don’t need your friends. I’ve got something much better.”  
  
Emma exhales, disbelief and something that sounds like _no_ , but is more like a mangled sound that hurts her throat on the way out.

She tries to pull on her magic, to bring it to her center and out, the way Regina always taught her, but she can’t hear anything over the buzzing in her ears and the _want_ in her heart and it wasn’t fair, to tell _him_ that and march to a fight she knew was all but impossible to win.

Him.

Him.

_Him._

“Killian,” Emma breathes, her own voice being called from the open door behind her and Mary Margaret screams before a flash of light that’s so bright it’s sure to blind everyone in a twenty-foot radius. She briefly sees the demon before she blinks, every one of his teeth obvious in his smile, and Emma knows she doesn’t imagine the way he nods in thanks before disappearing as quickly as he arrived.

“Where did he go?” Emma shouts, clawing at the dirt under her nails and David’s hand is already on her shoulder. “That’s...no, no, no.”  
  
“Em, what is going on?” David asks. He crouches in front of her again, holding her head in his hands so she doesn’t inadvertently swivel it off her goddamn neck and there are tears streaming down her face.

“Who’s Killian?” Mary Margaret presses.

Emma’s doesn’t answer, eyes darting towards Elsa. She’s got tears in her eyes as well. “There’s got to be a reason your magic found him, Emma,” she whispers. “It’s...he might not be human.”  
  
“But that’s…” Emma argues. “That’s insane. I…”

And it all clicks. She almost hears it actually _click_ , the switch in her head flipping on or off and David grunts when she uses his shoulder as leverage to stand up.

“The fairy,” Emma says, Elsa’s eyebrows shifting in confusion. “When this all started and we couldn’t figure out if the demon would be able to get out of Storybrooke, I asked Regina if anyone else had ever left. She said there were rumors that a fairy had. Because she fell in love with a human. What if that fairy had a kid...or a grandkid?”  
  
“Holy shit,” Elsa breathes, and that about sums it up. “Is that possible?”  
  
“We did just watch a demon pull memories out of Emma’s head,” David reasons. “Seems like possible shouldn’t be part of the equation anymore.”

Emma squeezes her eyes closed. “But, wait, wait. Why kill Milah then?”  
  
“Who’s Milah?”  
  
“Killian’s fiancé.”  
  
David shakes his head, Elsa shrugging and even a slightly groggy, recently woken-up Regina doesn’t have an answer. Mary Margaret sighs. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” she asks, and Emma waves her hands impatiently. “Well, there’s two reasons. But they both come down to power and True Love.”  
  
“Straight to the point please, Ms. Blanchard,” Regina growls.

“The demon wants power, yeah? So he finds a half human, half fairy who by all accounts should have magic, but has never shown any signs of doing that. He figures if he shocks him enough, it’ll draw the magic out. So he decides the best way to do that is to kill his fiancé. Then he’s got the bonus of maybe getting some True Love magic out of it.”  
  
“But it didn’t work,” Emma argues, and Mary Margaret tilts her head in exasperation. That clicks quickly too. “No, no, no, no, that’s--”  
  
“What did you write in the notebook before we left the station, Emma?” Elsa asks sharply.

Emma’s having trouble standing up. This is all her fault. She’s got to...she doesn’t know what she’s got to do.

“Emma,” Regina says. “What did you write to him?”  
  
She doesn’t open her eyes when she answers. “He...you showed up and said the demon was after Mary Margaret and David and he...he felt my magic. I think? He knew something was wrong and asked me not to go and I…”  
  
“You?”  
  
“I told him I loved him.”

Emma nearly stumbles under the force of Regina’s grip, fingers tight around her forearm and eyes dangerously thin. “You’ve got to go find him,” she says, no room for question in her tone.

“How?”  
  
“That demon. That...that thing...that’s one of the most powerful beings I’ve ever studied. He’s crazed, Emma. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants and you’ve presented it to him on a silver platter.”  
  
“Hey,” David mutters, but Regina shakes her head and Emma’s still not breathing evenly.

“Did you mean it?”  
  
“Mean what?” Emma asks.

“Do you love him? The fairy hybrid?” Emma doesn’t think before she nods. “Then you’ll be able to leave, you’ll be able to find him and keep the demon from ripping his heart out of his chest. Because that’s what he’ll do, hybrid power and guaranteed True Love. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, Emma. And you’re the only one who can stop him.”

“I don’t even know where to start!”  
  
“That’s not true. Elsa’s right. Your magic found him for a reason. Use it.”  
  
Emma nods, quick and jerky and everything feels too tight and too loose, far too many cautious stares and not enough seconds and she needs more time, needs her lungs to do their goddamn biologically dictated job. She rocks back on her heels when nothing happens in fifteen seconds or less, and Mary Margaret flicks at Regina’s elbow when she grows audibly impatient.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Emma says, a not-so-quiet mantra that times up with the beat of her magic behind her left eye. She jumps a few times, trying to work out that residual energy and her mind flits from thought to thought again, a lack of attention that has driven every person she’s ever known insane at one point or another.

She thinks of growing up in Storybrooke and a shower of sparks from David’s fingers and intricate ice sculptures in Elsa’s backyard and it’s not working, nothing is working, but she inhales slowly, toes curling in her shoes and air as crisp as it’s ever been and--

“Blue,” Emma mutters. Her mind races. Talking and letters and a handwriting she’d be able to describe in minute detail for the rest of her life and probably a considerable amount of time after, feeling and meaning and--”Talking,” she says, and the last thing she sees before everything around her shimmers is the pride in Mary Margaret’s smile.

The first thing she hears is screaming.

It’s loud and piercing and sends a chill down Emma’s spine that doesn’t belong in Manhattan in the middle of autumn. Her eyes snap open, gaze moving around the room and it’s not exactly what she pictured, but there’s little things that make her believe Killian Jones, NYPD Detective and maybe fairy hybrid and possibly the love of her _goddamn_ life could live there.

Emma pushes off her knees in the middle of the room she landed in, hardwood under her and windows open behind her and there’s a drawing on the bedside table that’s oddly familiar in the way her dream was.

She doesn’t have time, knows it, hears the screams and she’s halfway out the door, but her eyes dart back to the scrap of paper – right next to a notebook with her own handwriting at the bottom of the page. It’s her. The drawing is her, or a rough estimation of her, hair a little too short and chin not quite that curved, but the eyes are perfect and she’s running towards the noises before she realizes her brain has decided to do that.

He’s taller than she thought he’d be.

His hair is longer, curled behind his ears and the prosthetic at the end of his left arm is unexpected. There’s something to him that Emma immediately recognizes, and she’s not sure if it’s the magic or the want, but it doesn’t matter because he’s _there_ and she’s _there_ and she’s going to save him. He’s screaming, voice raw and the tear tracks on his cheeks look fresh.

“No, no,” Killian says, clearly not the first time he’s used those words. “You don’t...you don’t have to do this.”  
  
The demon laughs. And the man in his grasp tries to fight back.

There’s blood everywhere.

“Ah, see that’s where you’re wrong, dearie. I deserve to this, because I deserve this power. It’s my birthright. Much like it’s yours to show me your magic.”  
  
“That’s insane!”  
  
“Is it now? No, no, I saw it all, you see? Played out in your girlfriend’s pretty little head. Led me straight to you. I would have been willing to just kill you, of course, but then what do I find? Two hybrids and one in possession of True Love?” He giggles, and Emma’s frozen to the ground. “Oh, it’s my lucky day.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Killian says. “Just...let Liam go. You can...you can have me instead. I’ll go quietly even.”  
  
“No, no, that won’t do at all. You’re the prize, dearie.”

“Let my brother go.”  
  
“What did you not understand?” the demon asks. “I can’t do that. I want your magic, hybrid, and I want the power of your True Love. So I’ll slit your brother’s throat, take your heart and then the entire cosmos. Because that’s what fate intends for me.”  
  
“Killian, you’ve got to run,” Liam mumbles, voice slurred and barely audible and the floor creaks when Emma moves.

He looks at her exactly the way she hoped he would.

That seems selfish.

“Emma,” Killian whispers, and she’s hardly able to process that before the demon throws Liam on the ground and turns on her.

She waves her hand, the demon frozen in front of her – except his eyes, manic and surprised and it’s absolutely a mistake to turn her back on that _thing_ , but Killian is standing there, slack jawed and staring at her and Emma moves on instinct.

Again.

His hands move over her quickly, and maybe a bit posessively, eyes as blue as she thought they’d be and his lips quirk when her fingers ghost over the stubble on his jaw.

“How...how are you here?” Killian asks. “That’s--”  
  
“--God, don’t use the word impossible, it’s got no meaning anymore.” He nods, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth and it’s as nice as it is out of place with a brother potentially bleeding out on the floor a few feet away. “This is...what was your grandmother’s name? Or your mother? I think fairies live forever. It could be your mother.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The question, Jones,” Emma snaps, and his smile is full-blown at an endearment that’s just his name. The demon is starting to fight back, pushing against the bounds of her magic and Emma can feel beads of sweat on her temple.

“Alice,” Liam answers. “Our mother’s name was Alice.”  
  
Emma racks her brain, flashing through documents and cold cases and she remembers. Alice Farraige disappeared from Storybrooke forty-seven years before in a case that was never solved and never looked into and--

“Fairies,” Emma breathes.

Killian’s thumb works under her chin, an objection almost too obvious on the tip of his tongue, but Emma is admittedly distracted by the color of his eye and whatever seems to be happening to his skin, like there’s a faint glow under it just on the edge of his slightly pointed ears.

“God, look at your ears,” she laughs, and that’s the last thing she’s ever wanted to say.

“Are you making cracks about my ears, love?”

“Yeah, I might be.”

They’re flirting at the end of the world. It feels almost oddly appropriate.

Until Emma’s magic visibly stutters around them, the lights in the apartment flickering and the demon doesn’t laugh when he turns on them, eyes cold and hands lifted and Killian tries to push her behind him.

“God, stop it,” Emma huffs, but that works as well as saying nothing at all and she feels him stutter when her fingers wrap around the plastic at the end of his arm. “Just...just be here for a second. With me.”  
  
Killian turns towards her, brows pulled low, an appraising look that sends a flush of power through Emma’s veins. “Did you feel that?” he asks, and she nods. Words are very difficult all of the sudden.

“Of course she felt that,” the demon groans, hovering over Liam. He looks almost bored when he glances at them. “True Love is a two-way street, dearie. I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Miss Swan. It’s a rather frustrating surprise, but I suppose your heart will be just as worthwhile once the mutt is taken care of.”  
  
“You’re not going to do anything,” she says. It’s a confidence she doesn’t have, Killian leaning towards her like there are magnets or magic involved and it’s obviously the second one.

She can feel it.

_She can feel it._

“Oh shit,” Emma mumbles. “True Love.”  
  
Killian gapes at her. “That’s not a real thing, Swan.”  
  
“No,no, it is. It’s...that’s how I got here. I could...my magic found you. Because you needed your magic as well, and we needed each other and--oh shit, we made this happen!”  
  
“None of this is your fault, Swan. You’ve just...get out of here and I’ll be fine and--”  
  
“--Shut up,” she interrupts. Killian snaps his jaw closed. He smirks at her. With a goddamn demon trying to take over the world. “I need you to kiss me.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Are you questioning kissing me?”

“No, I’d like to kiss you quite a bit, I just didn’t think I’d ever see you in person and I was a little worried you were a figment of my imagination and--”  
  
She makes him shut up. With her mouth.

It’s a dangerous balancing act, Emma more less launching herself at Killian’s body at the same time the demon screams, magic trying to yank them apart and there’s light everywhere. It’s bright and warm and _home_ , like it’s welcoming them and protecting them and Emma doesn’t stop moving her lips, opening her mouth when Killian’s tongue traces against the seam.

His hand lingers on the small of her back, keeping her pressed against his chest while Emma’s fingers card through his hair. One of them hums against the other, an agreement and a _want_ and it’s difficult to see through the light around them.

Emma’s dimly aware of the magic moving out of them, like it’s own entity – separate, but not, like it’s growing out of each of them and extending into something different and powerful and the demon’s screech echoes off the walls.

They’re still lingering in each other’s space, Emma’s feet threatening to step on Killian’s toes. She lets her forehead rest on his, magic ringing in the air and sinking into her pores and probably her heart because she figures that’s how True Love should work and the demon is gone when she glances around.

“Where did he go?” Liam demands. It’s a fair question. One Emma doesn’t have an answer to.

“I have no idea,” she shrugs. “Um...oh, you’re not bleeding.”  
  
“Yeah, I think that kind of got fixed when your rainbow kiss made the murderer disappear. That’s what happened isn’t it?”  
  
“Why’d you ask then?”  
  
“Felt like common courtesy.”  
  
Emma scoffs, almost a laugh and almost a sigh and Killian kisses the crown of her head like that’s something he can do. “I’m uh...I’m Emma Swan,” she says, sticking her hand out in the bit of space in front of her. “I’m a witch and I’m fairly positive I’m dating your brother.”

“Definitely dating you brother,” Killian amends.

Emma smile threatens to crack her face. Liam takes her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says.

The rest is a bit of a blur – trying to explain magic to a slightly skeptical Liam and doing her best to occupy the same few inches as Killian because being farther away feels kind of _insane_ and it’s only a little clingy, but that’s kind of how True Love operates, or Emma keeps telling herself.

And she takes them to Storybrooke, walking past the barricades like they aren’t even there with Killian’s fingers laced through Emma’s. He only gasps slightly when Mary Margaret hugs him.

There are more explanations – Regina’s exasperated sigh when they settle onto the couches in her living room less frustrating with Killian’s arm around Emma’s shoulder and his lips brushing over her temple every other minute.

“You’re both an impossibility,” Regina explains. “Killian is half human, half magic, Emma’s all magic, but she’s always had trouble focusing that. She’s been waiting for a connection. You both have. And when you connect...well, rainbows. Quite literally.”  
  
“And where did the demon go?” Killian asks, an edge to his question Emma knows he’s trying to hide. She could listen to him talk forever.

That doesn’t freak her out as much as it should.

That’s probably a True Love thing too.

“The opposite of true love,” Regina answers simply. “Nothing.”

There are housing arrangements to be made, Liam grinning when someone offers to let him stay at Elsa's house and that’s something Emma absolutely can’t afford to think about when she’s too busy saying--”Do you want to come home with me?”

Killian squeezes her hand. And kisses her. “Of course, love.”

They take their time on the walk, slow and steady steps, but neither one of them lets go of the other’s hand and Killian smiles as soon as they walk into the apartment. “I thought it’d look like this,” he says, pulling Emma back to his side.

“That something you thought about a lot?”  
  
“Far more than was entirely appropriate. I...I dreamt about you.”  
  
“Yeah, I did too,” Emma admits. “That’s, uh, where the eye color question came from. It wasn’t totally weird.”  
  
“Right, right only slightly weird.”  
  
She swats at his chest, but it’s been a _day_ and he kisses the bend of her knuckles when he catches her around the wrist. “It’s….you’re doing that in stride thing again.”  
  
“Ah, well, it’s easier when I’m getting what I want.”  
  
“Yeah?” Emma asks, the blush in her cheeks obvious even without Killian’s answering smirk. “That’s uh--”  
  
“--True Love or so several people have told us. With magic involved for extra measure.”  
  
“And you’re...you’re good with that?”  
  
She rests her hands flat on his chest, willing her heart to settle into a normal, acceptable rhythm, but that’s clearly too much to ask for. Killian doesn’t blink, just holds her gaze and lets his fingers trail over the curve of her waist and the jut of her hip and he laughs softly when he notices the goosebumps on her arms.

“That’s not funny,” Emma mumbles. “It’s probably magic or something, some weird fairy thing that makes people’s internal body temperatures change or something.”  
  
He hums, shifting his weight between his sneakers. They squeak on her floors and echo in between her ears and that phosphorescent _thing_ around Killian’s ears happens again. Emma makes a mental note to ask Regina about it.

It’s kind of blowing her mind that she maybe, sort of, definitely had _everything_ to do with Killian’s magic showing up.

“When that demon came the first time,” he starts, and every other thought flies out Emma’s head. “He, um...well he killed Milah and he laughed. I don’t remember much, I remember that and there was blood everywhere and I tried to move, pull myself off the wall--”  
  
“--You were on the wall?”  
  
Killian eyes her, a mix of exasperation and something that feels a hell of a lot like love. “He was the embodiment of all evil, right, Swan? Seems fairly normal for him to hold me against the wall to try and kill her, huh?”  
  
“Yeah…”  
  
“Anyway, I, uh...she was dead and I was...not entirely coherent and I thought I could do something, wanted to do anything and he waved his hand and mine was gone.”  
  
Emma’s experienced the entire gamut of human emotions in the last twenty-four hours, but she’s not entirely human and her boyfriend’s only partially human, and her fury rushes red-hot through her system and she knows Killian feels it.

The wobbling coffee table a few feet away probably helps.

“There’s a point to this love, I promise,” he says, smile obvious when his lips ghost over her hair again. “What I’m saying is...I was angry for a very long time about every single thing and then some and I hid in that apartment because I didn’t want anyone to see the end of my arm and Liam had to make sure I was still eating and then you showed up.”  
  
“In notebook form.”  
  
“It didn’t matter. You were there. And you were...it was like coming up for air after drowning for years. I just held onto you with both of my hands and that’s never happened before.”  
  
“I’m going to be honest that I’m admittedly way more focused on your very attractive face than anything else,” Emma admits.

His answering laugh is as wonderful as she ever imagined.

It’s better.

Honestly.

“I’ll take that,” Killian grins. "But you’re distracting me from my point, love.”  
  
“Then make because it’s getting very difficult to stay awake.”  
  
He chuckles, a quick kiss to her lips and hands on her waist and Emma chases after him on instinct. “That’s insulting, Swan,” he mumbles. “What I’m saying is...I realize we may have actually saved the world and I’ve got an entire magical history I’m fairly certain you’ve now got to teach me, but it...it happened before all of that. I’ve loved you for a very long time, Emma Swan. And I’m incredibly happy you’re not a figment of my imagination.”  
  
Emma’s head drops down and her body shakes with the force of her happiness and--”Really?”  
  
“The rainbow left little doubt, didn’t it?”  
  
“But you said before the rainbow.”  
  
“Well before the rainbow,” Killian says. “Probably around the time you told me you enjoyed pineapple on your pizza.”  
  
“It’s good!”  
  
“Blasphemous, but in an endearing sort of way. I would have been content to write notes to you for the rest of my life, but this is far better.”

Emma nods, not able to voice the absurd number of thoughts in her head or get them past the rather large wad of emotion in the back of her throat. It doesn’t make much of a difference anyway, they’re far too busy kissing each other and stumbling back towards her bedroom and there are lost clothes and more goosebumps and Emma’s magic warms through her as soon as Killian’s shakes around them.

And hours later, with moonlight streaming in through half-closed blinds and Killian’s arm around her waist, Emma tilts her chin up and meets blue eyes that changed everything. “I love you,” she whispers, no threat and out loud and she swears her magic gets stronger when he smiles at her.

“I love you too, Swan. No matter what.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another part of the [The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon) and got completely out of hand because I am apparently some kind of actual old person who legit threw their back out while working out several weeks ago and responded with some crazed writing fit while listening to Florence and the Machine. If you are here, thanks for reading all these words about witches. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down. I'll be posting photos from Disney for the next week.


	25. Relationship Advice

“You’ve got to move your shoulder.”  
  
Elsa twists, eyebrows shifting and smile tugging lightly at the end of her mouth. She doesn’t actually move her shoulder. If anything, she digs the blade further into Emma’s back and the whole thing is kind of ridiculous and maybe even a little immature, particularly for two grown adults, each with their own royal titles and magic, but they’re also sitting on the deck of a pirate ship, so it kind of all evens out in the end.

At least Emma hopes so.

She’d mostly just like Elsa to stop leaning all her weight into her back.

“Maybe you’re the one who has to sit up straighter,” Elsa accuses, but she can’t quite mask the hint of laughter in her voice. The pirate on this pirate ship scoffs a few feet away.

“I think we’re about be told to walk the plank,” Emma mutters. Elsa laughs. Loudly.

She’s not sure how this all happened, really – the pirate ship or the trip around Arendelle’s coast, but there’s quite a bit of it and Killian’s been interested for years, _actual years, Swan_ , and it’s honestly not worth arguing with Hope when she realizes Elsa is considering being within even five feet of any of them. Their kid is absolutely, hopefully, devoted to the queen of Arendelle.

Emma kind of gets it.

The snowflake magic is pretty cool.

And it’s...nice, to have a friend and a built-in support system and someone to discuss royal titles with because, as whatever balance game they’ve decided to play in the middle of the Jolly’s deck shows, Emma is not really all that good with dealing with royal titles.

Still, always, indefinitely.

So, Elsa brought up the trip and some island off the coast that reportedly had some kind of rock troll treasure on it because, apparently, rock trolls migrated sometimes – “Honestly, Mom, how do you not know this by now?” Henry asked when Emma told him that and Killian just shrugged when she looked for some kind of _for better or worse_ support. “You’ve got to read the lad’s notes, more often, love.” Henry smirked. – and Killian’s whole face did something vaguely piratical at that particular bit of information.

Still, always, indefinitely.

“No one is walking the plank,” Killian argues from his spot at the helm and the toddler in his arms is trying to steer the wheel on her own. “You’ve got to stop squirming, you fish,” he mutters, and Hope grins like she knows she’s already winning the argument. “And tell your mother we’ll put her in the brig instead.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon, that’s just mean,” Emma shouts.

“It’s easier than trying to get a plank over that portside rail.”  
  
Elsa laughs even louder. And Emma would bet all of the rock troll’s clearly substantial fortune that Killian’s eyes get bluer.

It’s distracting.

“You’re making it very hard to stay balanced here,” she accuses, and she absolutely expects the eyebrow quirk. It doesn’t make it any less ridiculous to see.

“Then perhaps you’d like to move out of the middle of the deck, Swan.”  
  
“No, no, no, it’s a matter of pride now.”  
  
“What is, exactly?”  
  
Emma hums, not sure what the answer actually is, and Elsa’s head bumps hers when she keeps laughing. Killian’s expression doesn’t change, still challenging and teasing, but his lips shift slightly and it’s enough, some unspoken form of communication Emma’s pretty positive they’ve had since the first time she set foot on this deck and maybe it’s not totally insane to assume that something is going on.

That’s comforting.

“We didn’t ever really decide what it is we’re doing, did we?” Elsa asks.

Emma shrugs. “I think we both decided we wanted to sit? And it turned into--”  
  
“--A balance competition?”  
  
“I honestly can’t remember, God, does that mean I’m getting old? Is that a sign of something?”  
  
“I hope not,” Elsa says, voice catching when they crest over a particularly aggressive wave. “Is the ship still intact?”  
  
Emma lets out a low whistle, eyes flitting back to Killian and the smile has turned a bit more incredulous, “It’s rude to insult a vessel such as this like that, Your Majesty. Also, I believe you both decided you were going to lean against each other because the rigging on the mast was too uncomfortable.”  
  
“Oh that’s right,” Emma mutters. “Is that another insult to your ship, Captain?”  
  
He nods, shifting his hold on Hope until she’s more or less sitting on top of the wheel and Emma refuses to admit that she forgot the start of this entire exercise because she was far too busy staring at her husband man an entire pirate ship on his own. She assumes Hope didn’t really do much to help, except to babble excessively in Killian’s ear.

And point out particularly fluffy clouds.

It really doesn’t matter, Killian totally knows Emma was staring. So does Elsa. Who, Emma is, at least seventy-six percent positive, is avoiding several different conversations with this excursion and a string of pirate-based insults.

“Is Your Majesty the right term?” Emma asks, leaning her head back to rest on the curve of Elsa’s shoulder. She doesn’t object to that. “In the general scheme, I mean?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re asking me, Swan,” Killian admits.

“You called Elsa Your Majesty. Is that right? Or are we just throwing insults all around now?”  
  
“As far as I can tell the only insults that have been levied, have been ones to my ship. The same ship that’s getting us to this fantastic island.”  
  
“Are you questioning the level of fantastic on this island?”  
  
“Why are you insulting my ship?”  
  
Emma purses her lips, eyes wide and Killian’s gaze far too blue and it really is kind of gorgeous out there on the water with their kid and their friend and the insults aren’t really all that insulting.

He grins at her.

“I think I won,” Emma mumbles, earning a slightly dejected sigh out of him that’s really more endearing than threatening to put her in the brig.

“You’re far too competitive for your own good, darling.”  
  
“And,” Elsa adds. “If you want to get technical, I might have been the one to start throwing out offenses regarding the Captain’s ship. Also I’m not actually sure if Your Majesty is the right term anymore. That’s what they say at home, but--”  
  
“--Gets rather confusing with so many monarchs in one all realm, doesn’t it?” Killian finishes.

“Occasionally.”  
  
“If that’s what they call you at home, then who are we to argue with that?” Emma asks.

“And she’s not entirely sure how it works,” Killian adds, back to teasing and possibly insulting and Emma gapes when he moves away from the helm.

It’s been actual years since Hope would only fall asleep on the portside of The Jolly, but Emma’s spent enough time on that ship that she’s fairly confident only Killian knows it better and she’s certain he considers it hers just as much as his and--

“I’m going to throw _you_ in the brig,” she says, sticking her tongue out as he drops next to her. It’s far more graceful than he’s got any right to be, particularly when a kid masquerading as a fish is trying to climb up his side and possibly sit on his shoulders. Or just get Elsa to make more snowflakes in the middle of the ocean.

Killian totally knows that too.

“I’m afraid you’ve got no authority out here, Your Highness,” Killian grins, and Elsa’s laugh seems to be coming easier with every passing moment.

“That’s not true. I outrank you. Right?”  
  
“The fact that you have to double check is troubling, love.”

Emma sticks her tongue out again. Or keeps it out. She’s not sure she ever stopped. She’s a picture of motherly and royal responsibility. “No, seriously, I do,” she says. “Right?”  
  
“Swan, the double checking is not doing you many favors.”  
  
“That’s because you’re the world’s most frustrating pirate.” She leans forward to tug on the front of Hope’s shirt, only a little worried by the balancing act she’s staging on Killian’s thighs, but he’s so goddamn good on that ship and just, like, being a dad in general, the whole thing feels kind of pointless. “Right, kid?” she asks, instead, wiggling her fingers and there are sparks at the tips and laughter in the air and between Emma and Elsa they get Hope to giggle for a solid three minutes at the sight of their combined magic.

“I think it depends on the realm,” Elsa says, a few minutes later, and Emma hums in confusion. “The ranks, I mean. I outrank everyone in Arendelle. Don’t tell my sister that though.”  
  
“Nothing like complete and utter power, huh?” Killian asks knowingly.

“Are you a little threatened by that, pirate?”  
  
“Not by you, Your Majesty, but--”  
  
“--Oh my God, you are,” Emma crows, and that’s the wrong tone of voice because Hope’s eyes are starting to flutter shut and if they’ll lucky they’ll be able to stay on the nap schedule they’ve worked so hard to formulate.

“No, no, my aversions to royalty ended more or less ended when I said ‘I do,’”  
  
“More or less,” Elsa echoes. There are still bits of frost swirling around her right wrist and Emma needs this conversation to stay on track so she can figure out why it’s happening in the first place. Maybe they should all play that balancing game instead.

They never actually decided on a prize.

“I’m nothing if not an utter romantic,” Killian drawls. It works a laugh out of Emma though, and another smile out of Elsa and Hope’s definitely asleep. “And it might have been a little bit earlier than that. If I’m being completely honest.”

“Are you?”  
  
There’s an edge to the question that Emma absolutely does _not_ expect and she can’t help the way her eyes widen – or immediately flash to Killian. That ability to have an unspoken conversation isn’t always perfect. Or subtle.

Killian nods slowly, gaze flitting between the two royals in front of him. Hope might actually be snoring. It’s equally adorable and slightly worrying. “Aye,” he says. “Quite serious, in fact.”  
  
“Where is this going, Elsa?” Emma asks. “Also do I really not outrank him?”  
  
She did it, mostly, for the reaction, to cut through the rather obvious tension that had suddenly descended on them, but she was also curious and Emma figures asking her friend for royal definitions and hierarchy is far better than asking her son.

Who will only turn around and tell his step-father about his mother’s questions.

While very likely running a hand through his hair in a painfully on-point impression of said step-father.

“I don’t think many of the royal rules really apply to pirates,” Elsa answers reasonably. “Is that another insult?”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “A fact I’d agree with whole-heartedly.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groans, but that’s more for show too and she’s certain, eventually, she’ll stop being charmed by her own husband. Probably not. Definitely not when he’s holding their sleeping, snoring daughter, fingers carding through the ends of her hair and tracing absent-minded patterns on the back of her t-shirt. “You know that’s kind of disappointing,” she continues. “What good is my royal-ness then if I can’t send Killian to the brig?”  
  
“I suppose you could send him to your actual dungeon, on land,” Elsa suggests, enough seriousness in her voice that Emma knows it’s not another joke. And the all-realm has been something for years now, a mix of fairy tale and real life and people riding horses up the middle of goddamn Main Street, but sometimes there’s still a disconnect that takes Emma by surprise and she’ll have to apologize for her answering laugh eventually.

“I believe we’ve done that several times, actually,” Killian answers. “Several instances of handcuffs, aye, Swan?”

She mumbles _oh my God_ under her breath again, and she’s going to arrest her own deputy, right there on the deck of his pirate ship, jurisdiction be damned, solely for whatever crime he’s committing with his eyebrows.

“Yeah, well, you deserved all those times,” Emma accuses, and the eyebrows just keep breaking several laws of physics.

“Spoken like a true monarch.”  
  
“Ah, that’s an insult too.”  
  
“I’m merely leveling the playing field, love,” Killian promises. He leans forward, close enough that Emma almost forgets where they are and who they are and that there’s an _actual_ monarch sitting a few feet away with a real problem she resolutely refuses to talk about.

This always seems to happen, though – particularly at royal events. Emma’s pretty certain her mother and Regina are running a standing pool among the people of Storybrooke as to how many times she and Killian can disappear into dark corridors or abandoned stairwells before her father, finally, starts to catch on.

Emma’s also not entirely convinced he hasn’t already. And just wants to ignore it.

That’s probably for the best.

“Distracting,” Emma says, enunciating every letter of the word and she’s not sure what noise she makes when Killian’s lips brush against hers, but it leaves Elsa a very bright shade of pink and probably scandalizes any rock trolls in the area.

“I’d be willing to agree to a joint rule of The Jolly.”  
  
“Oh, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” he repeats, and she knows he only does it because she has some weird fascination with making him use slang. Elsa’s face is going to burst into flames. “What do you think, Your Majesty? Is that properly royal?”  
  
Elsa starts at being included in the conversation again, but she’s a _real_ royal and it only takes her a few blinks and two breaths to find her footing. So to speak. They’re still sitting on the deck. “As proper as can be expected when it comes to divvying up the ranks on a pirate ship,” she says, smile wide and genuine. Killian’s eyebrows are _stupid_.

“That’s all we can hope for, I suppose. And it does give us some time to discuss the real reason we’re out here. As much as it pains me, I’d imagine it’s not got much to do with the rock troll treasure, does it?”  
  
Elsa’s mouth drops, so does Emma’s, and she shouldn’t be surprised by that either, because Killian has always been very good at reading the room – or the deck, as it were. And Elsa is _their friend_ , a real, true, genuine friend who cares and willingly babysits Hope when Emma and Killian want to take abandoned corridor activities back to their own room for a few quiet, uninterrupted hours.

He widens his eyes when Elsa doesn’t respond immediately, gaze darting to Emma and she mumbles something that sounds like _oh now you want backup_. Killian chuckles, turning when Hope moves in her sleep and Elsa sighs at the sound she makes.

“It’s like she knows how to charm me even when she’s asleep,” Elsa mutters. “And there really is a rumor about rock troll treasure out here, but Kristoff said I was mad to even consider it, so…”

“So what is this really about, Elsa?” Emma asks.

The queen of Arendelle wavers for a moment, twisting and turning and tilting her head enough that her hair catches the breeze, strands flying across her face while her fingers tap out an impatient rhythm on her thigh. She’s not wearing her usual dress, which was enough to make Emma positive _something big_ was happening, but now it seems like several somethings and Elsa’s hand falls on Hope’s shoulder like she’s trying to remind herself of something good before she says anything.

“Your Maj--” Killian starts, but Elsa shakes her head and--

“I’m thinking of adopting a child.”

Emma, eventually, will feel bad about the state of her jaw in the few prolonged minutes of absolutely _wrong_ silence that follow that particular proclamation, but that’s the last thing she expected to hear and there’s snow falling on her head.

She blinks. And blinks again. And licks her lips because her mouth has been hanging open for an inexcusable amount of time.

“Wait, what?” Emma asks, and that’s not what she plans to say either.

Elsa scrunches her nose. “It’s not...I mean, I’m the queen, it’s not that it wouldn’t be easy, but I haven’t really decided and it’s...well, I was out with Anna a little over a week ago and there were children down by the docks and a girl who’s around Hope’s age and--”  
  
“--No parents?” Killian asks, taking this far better than Emma and a mind that appears to have been frozen by the snow as well.

“None.”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait, back up,” Emma sputters. There are more sparks coming from her fingers when she waves her hands through the air. “Why were you finding random kids in Arendelle?”  
  
“Full of tact as always, love,” Killian mutters, and it takes some effort to sling his arm around her without jostling their kid too much, but he’s so _absurdly_ good at keeping his balance on this ship that Emma almost finds offense in it. She almost calls it a boat to his face, just to see what he’ll do. She’s more worried about what Elsa is doing with her face.

She’s biting her lip and staring at her twisted hands and the flurries are starting to more resemble shards of ice.

“That’s not really what I meant,” Emma says. “I wasn’t like...suggesting you were stealing kids. Or plotting to steal kids.”  
  
Elsa’s laugh is shaky at best and watery at worst and Emma’s only slightly stunned to find her eyes glossy when she looks up at them.

“This is a slightly depressing story,” she warns.

Emma shrugs. “If it’s about sad childhoods, you’re talking to the poster-children.”  
  
“You know I actually understood that reference.”  
  
“That’s because you’re the greatest queen in all the realms.”  
  
“Don’t let Regina hear you say that.”  
  
“Eh, I’m willing to pull favorites when you’re so good at getting my kid to fall asleep.”  
  
“It’s honestly almost easy,” Elsa promises, and Killian makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat.

“Oh, aye, when you can distract her with snowflakes.”  
  
“There’s that bitterness towards royals again, Captain.”  
  
“And your idea of adopting a child isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Your Majesty, Even with the undoubtedly harrowing childhood story.”  
  
“Harrowing is kind of extreme.”  
  
“Is it?” Emma asks seriously, and Elsa immediately scrunches her nose again, a soft sigh and slumped set of shoulders.

“I mean, I guess not,” she admits. “There was a considerable amount of being told to stay away from anyone else for fear that I’d hurt them.”  
  
“You won’t do that.”  
  
“And you won’t do that to a child,” Killian adds.

Elsa’s nose stays as scrunched as ever. “I want to believe that. I do. And part of me does. But...I suppose I’m just worried about what happens if I lose control or...do something and I, well, Hope likes snowflakes, but what happens if--”  
  
“--Kids love snow,” Emma says reasonably. “Ask Henry. He was obsessed with it even after it was cool for him to be obsessed with it.”  
  
“Is there a limit on obsessions in your realm?”  
  
Killian’s laugh is more a snort than an actual laugh, loud enough to half-rouse Hope and all three adults, no matter what title they may or may not be sporting, turn wide-eyed at the movement. “Go back to sleep, little fish,” Killian says, and the waves under The Jolly have mostly quieted. As if that’s something waves can do, but Emma is calm and the ocean is calm and she knows there’s a half-finished map of the Arendelle cost in the captain’s quarters.

He was absolutely thrilled at the prospect of rock troll treasure.

Hope makes a contrary noise, squirming and flopping and the fish comparisons really are warranted. She reaches out, hands grabbing for something that isn’t there and it takes everyone less than a full second to realize she wants to move towards Elsa.

Killian does an almost admirable job of not looking too put out by that.

“There’s no real limit on obsessions,” Emma shrugs. “But, you know...Henry was a teenager and it probably wasn’t cool to want to test out magical theories on snowball fights with his parents.  
  
“Of which he often came up on the losing end of,” Killian adds. Hope is already asleep again.

“That’s a nice story though,” Elsa points out, and Emma can’t bring herself to argue because it’s kind of the best. “My experience with magical snow tends to skew a bit more…”  
  
“Harrowing?”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”  
  
“I’m not sure if that was an insult as well, but you’ve made sure the little fish didn’t throw a fit in the middle of the sea, so I suppose we can discuss the particulars later.”  
  
Elsa laughs softly, some of the tension evaporating from her shoulders. Some. Not all of it. That’s probably because they keep using the word _harrowing_ in actual conversation. “Do pirates make deals? Because that seems like a good one.”  
  
“Depends on the treasure,” Emma says knowingly. Killian kisses the top of her hair. “You ever going to actually explain this little venture or is it genuinely just thinking you’ll lose control of some pretty cool power?”  
  
“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”  
  
“And yet you invited us out here.”  
  
“I don’t know anyone else with such a glorious boat at their immediate disposal.”  
  
Killian groans, and Elsa’s smile is as easy as it’s been since they lifted anchor. She hugs Hope a little closer, letting her chin rest on the top of her hair and her fingers are moving again, like she’s trying to memorize it all or preserve it for a future that she deserves as much as anyone.

“It’s still a depressing story,” she warns again. Emma’s shoulders are going to get sprained from shrugging them so much.

“We don’t have anywhere to be, we’re blowing off all our royal duties.”  
  
“Pirates, you see,” Killian says, pulling Emma closer to his side until she’s more or less balancing against him now and it’s admittedly more comfortable than Elsa’s protruding shoulder blades were. “And Henry promised he’d cover for us if Regina asked where we were.”

“Truly deceptive, both of you,” Elsa grins. “Alright, so, a little over a week ago, Anna and I were visiting the docks, routine inspections and discussions about trading and meetings with a few of the other realms ambassadors and I noticed the group of children there. Like I said, not a parent in sight and dirt under nails, tears in their clothes, everything you’d expect from living on the street.”  
  
“How many were there?” Emma asks.  
  
“No more than half a dozen, but that’s far too many.” Emma nods in understanding, and Elsa’s fingers haven’t stilled once.  “So...well, I can do some in Arendelle, provide them with homes and families and even in the all-realm, if there aren’t enough families at home, there may be other places. I spoke to Guinevere--”  
  
“--You talked to Guinevere already? God, does she ever sleep?”  
  
“I really don’t think so,” Elsa admits. “But I spoke to her and she said there were a few families in Camelot willing to give some of the older children homes. I thought that might be nice, a change of scenery and fresh start, but…”  
  
“But?”

“The one girl, the young one, she shouldn’t have to leave everything she’s ever known,” Elsa whispers, and Emma knows she doesn’t imagine the way Killian’s arm tightens around her shoulders. “But that’s where I start to stumble a bit. I’ve got no experience with children, and my parents didn’t leave much of an example and is that even fair?”  
  
“Is what fair?”

“To only take in one of the children? I...that seems wrong.”  
  
“It’s not as if you’re sending the others to work houses, Elsa," Killian says reasonably, the first time he’s used her name all day. She notices immediately. And sighs.

“I know. And I realize they’d have a much better life in Camelot than they could begin to imagine now, but I want to do this right and do something right and I...don’t want to hurt anyone. Or have anyone hurt by me.”  
  
“I really don’t think you could do that,” Emma says. “What did Mulan say when you mentioned it to her.”  
  
The ocean suddenly sounds incredibly loud.

Emma wonders what the name of this particular ocean is. It’s probably on the map in the captain’s quarters.

“Oh, Elsa,” Emma sighs, met with closed eyes and an improbably still-scrunched nose. “You think you want to adopt a kid and you didn’t tell Mulan?”  
  
“That’s because I’m not sure I can do it,” Elsa says. She keeps her eyes closed. “And, well, we’re not exactly...we’re not married.”  
  
“That’s not, like, a prerequisite. Is it? Oh, God, if it is in Arendelle, we should get Regina to change that.”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
“But you’ve been thinking about that,” Killian mutters, the words sounding a bit like an accusation. Elsa’s eyes snap open.

“Maybe you’ve got mind-reading magic, pirate.”  
  
He shakes his head. “You spend quite a lot of time around my daughter, Your Majesty. It makes you rather easy to read.”  
  
“He’s perceptive, you see,” Emma mumbles, working a scoff and a kiss out him for her vaguely sarcastic efforts. “And that’s crazy, you know that, right?”  
  
“Thank you for the support.”  
  
“Did you talk to Anna about this?”  
  
“No, of course not. Anna believes in the power of all love no matter what. I’m positive she’s got designs for a wedding dress stashed away since she wore our mother’s and I’d have to have something of my own.”  
  
“Would you wear a dress?”

“I think that would require a wedding.”  
  
“Which you want,” Emma points out.

“I never said that.”  
  
“Eh,” Killian objects, and Emma raises her eyebrows. Like they’re a two-headed monster of relationship judgement and the power of True Love, which, she supposes, they kind of are.

Huh. That’s a weird sentence.

“I came to you two because I thought this would go better than it is,” Elsa mumbles. “And because I thought you were better sources on all of it than anyone else i know.”  
  
Emma blinks. “Sources?”  
  
“Oh, please, you’re going to make me say it?”  
  
“And I think we’re going to enjoy it very much,” Killian laughs. Elsa flicks her fingers and there are several icicles hanging from the edge of his hair. “Oh, that’s playing dirty.”  
  
“Something, something, pirate.”  
  
“Is anyone going to clue me into what is going on?” Emma demands. She’s going to wake up her kid with her own shouting.

Elsa rolls her whole head, letting her cheek rest against Hope’s forehead. It leaves her skin a little bunched and still a little flushed and they’re probably going to all get sunburned from sitting on the deck for so long.

“You two sneak off in the middle of every royal event you’ve ever attended,” Elsa starts. “And everyone knows, yes, including your father, so don’t act like that’s surprising.”  
  
“If not a little troubling,” Killian mumbles, the words getting jumbled when Emma elbows him in the ribs. “Half of those missions are your idea, love.”  
  
“Anyway,” Elsa continues pointedly. “All that aside, you are...well, you’re the best version of parents I’ve ever encountered in any of the realms, and strange nicknames aside, Hope couldn’t ask for a better family to be part of and I just…” She shrugs. “I thought if I asked you how you did it and maybe what you thought of me trying to do it, then it would...I’d be a little more confident in the choice.”  
  
The ocean is seriously so goddamn loud.

Emma doesn’t know how she’s never realized that before.

“You said choice,” Killian points out.

“What?”  
  
“Choice. As in one you’ve already made.”  
  
Emma can’t jump up – far too aware of the sleeping kid and the arm wrapped tightly around her – but she does make some kind of absurd noise of victory, and Elsa’s eyes widen to an almost comically large size. “Maybe that’s what I win for the balance challenge,” she says.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Elsa argues.

“I really don’t care. Is he right, though? I mean, it sounds like you’ve already made a choice. And want. On several different fronts.”  
  
“It’s not a battle, Emma.”  
  
“Isn’t it though?”  
  
“Only the best kind,” Killian says, and both Elsa and Emma groan. He smirks. She’s going to magic his eyebrows off between here and whatever island they end up at. “Although, for what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s really much of a battle. If you were a less responsible royal, you’d also sneak away with Mulan in the middle of events. It’s more fun to scandalize them, anyway.”  
  
“Ah, I’m going to tell the Prince you said that,” Elsa says. The snow has stopped. Killian’s hair is, almost, melting.

“I’d really you rather didn’t. I haven’t actually been part of a duel in quite some time.”  
  
“How many duels were you in?” Emma asks, the tips of Killian’s ears going pink.

“That’s a story for a different voyage, love.”  
  
“I think you’re avoiding the subject.”

“He’s absolutely avoiding the subject,” Elsa agrees. She takes a deep breath when Emma turns towards her, Hope awake again and playing fish. The nickname absolutely makes sense. “And,” she continues. “I think you’re both right, but it’s...well, I appreciate having the chance to say it out loud. It’s nice to have that.”  
  
Emma blinks so she doesn’t do something stupid like cry in the middle of an ocean she doesn’t know the name of, and Elsa’s hand is surprisingly warm when she reaches forward.

It’s not really that surprising.

“Yeah,” she nods. “It is.”  
  
There’s no treasure on the island – much to Killian’s dismay, but Hope enjoys the sand and they’re all questionably competitive when Emma explains what sandcastles are, trying to build the best ones before the tide comes in. They decree the ocean the winner when it destroys all of their work quickly and immediately.

And Emma’s not sure what she expected, but there’s an invitation sitting in front of their door less than two weeks later. It’s made of ice that doesn’t melt.

The ceremony itself is short and small – Mulan invites Ruby and Dorothy and Emma wears a new dress that makes Killian’s lips twitch before she twists her wrists and _poofs_ them to a hall in the Arendelle castle and Anna spends most of the day wiping away tears while Kristoff smiles warmly next to her.

And there’s a kid standing between Elsa and Mulan, both her hands holding each of theirs, a smile on her face that looks like she’s testing it out for the first time. Her name is Astrid and she’ll absolutely, positively _adore_ Hope.

They’ll probably explore the Arendelle coast together some day.

Elsa doesn’t wear a dress.

She wears a goddamn _sparkly_ suit. With a cape.

“That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Emma muses, whispering the words into Killian’s ear when his arm finds its way around her waist.

“Your humor continues to miss the mark, darling.”  
  
“Whatever, you think I’m funny.”  
  
“I’ve never once said that.”  
  
“You’re passably attracted to me.”  
  
“Passably?”  
  
“You want to object to that, Captain?”  
  
He glances at her, disbelieving and far too blue to be anything except completely unfair and Emma’s so busy being distracted by how attracted she is to her own husband that she barely hears _kiss the bride_ and there’s a wedding they have to celebrate.

And they do. They dance and toast and listen to a very long speech from Anna that’s momentarily interrupted by tears. There’s a skating rink and there’ll inevitably be another ball, with more gowns and far more protocol, but--

“You know,” Killian drawls, closing in on midnight and several glasses of something that Elsa promised was _just like champagne,_ but appears to be far more potent. “This is technically a royal event.”

Emma’s heart stutters, fingers gripping the front of his jacket in a way that’s as exciting as it is familiar. “That’s true.”  
  
“With what appears to be a deserted corridor around that corner, just begging for a little company.”  
  
“That’s a weird way to tell me you want to make out with me.”  
  
“I’d very much like to make out with you, Swan.”

They do just that, laughing and smiling and they’re a twist of limbs and hands and mouths, Emma’s feet popping out of her shoes so she can card her fingers through his hair. And it’s good and great and _them_ in a way that everyone knows, until there are suddenly more footsteps and both Elsa and Mulan gasp when Killian tugs Emma back to his side.

“Ah,” Elsa says, clicking her teeth on the word. “Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time.”  
  
“If you tell my dad, I’ll never offer to babysit your kid,” Emma warns.

Mulan salutes. “That’s fair. C’mon, I think there was another, slightly better spot a few halls away.”

Emma spends, at least, the next thirty seconds laughing, head resting on Killian’s chest and his fingers drifting dangerously high up her side. It’s, apparently, thirty seconds too long.  

“C’mon, love,” he says, all but dragging her back down the hall and decidedly away from the rest of the party. The guests of honor have left anyway. “No sense in tempting fate twice.”

It’s easier to make out in a bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hi, hello there. This was another prompt for [The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon) and I am forever trash for giving Elsa a canon girlfriend. Also I want her and Emma and Killian to be best friends forever and ever until the end of time. 
> 
> Come hang on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down, where it's almost hockey season and I'm already ready to lose my mind over the New York Rangers.


	26. Taking a Sick Day

“Swan, you’ve actually got to turn your head, love.”  
  
She makes a dismissive noise, something that Killian is becoming more and more acquainted with the longer they stage this encampment in their bedroom. He’s not sure when he started referring to it like that, but the whole week has felt suspiciously similar to an attack on a naval garrison and it was probably around the time the blankets started to overtake the bed.

He can barely see Emma under the edges – a variety of patterns and fabrics that they’ll have to return to those who donated to the cause. Most of them were from her parents’ farmhouse, hand-stitching that was worse in some spots than others and Her Royal Highness Snow White had taken up knitting at some point.

If he didn’t think Emma would actually try to glare him to death if he dared make a joke about _that_ Killian absolutely would have brought it up. And then pointed out that while Emma may actually be the worst patient in the history of any realm, her mother was a close second for overbearing medical practitioner.

She’d been the one to begin the blanket rally.

“I’m not drinking that,” Emma announces, but the words are mostly mumbled into a pillow that will have to be washed at some point.

Killian rolls his eyes. And is still not surprised.

“Emma,” he says, ignoring the slightly different noise she makes, complete with her tongue sticking out like the sound of her own name is personally offensive. He lifts his eyebrows. Honestly, it may be better to burn all the blankets.

He doesn’t think Snow White will appreciate that.

And the last thing he needs is Snow White frustrated with him.

He’s in particularly dangerous waters after questioning whatever stew concoction she brought for Emma the day before. It truly did smell horrible though, and Killian had never been entirely of the mind that the worst it smelled, the better it worked.

Until his wife, the love his far too long life, and Savior of the all-realm refused to take her bloody medicine. Then he was willing to fall back on particularly questionable old wives tales.

“Nuh uh,” Emma objects. “I’m not doing that again. Once was enough for several lifetimes.”  
  
“As far as I know, love, there’ll only be one.”   
  
“Bring me to Neverland then.”   
  
Killian scowls, but Emma just presses her lips together and he really should have been better prepared for this. He’s not surprised, more passably annoyed because the storm had been bad and the rain had been something Henry referred to as _totally crazy_ , like that was something the weather was allowed to be, and Emma had been out in it for far too long. He honestly couldn’t remember what they’d been looking for, but there’d been some skirmish on the Camelot and Arendelle border and Elsa offered to watch Hope as some form of royal babysitting penance.

“Aw, c’mon,” Emma sighs, flipping her head to the side so she can look directly at him and that only ends with a slightly different sound and there are probably enough of those to compose a very impressive, if not slightly nauseous, symphony at this point. “You can’t look at me like that. I’m sick. That gives me a free pass.”  
  
Killian shakes his head, dropping onto the edge of the bed. “Not to make incredibly unfunny jokes, Swan.”   
  
“It was kind of funny.”   
  
“It was not. And it was incorrect as well.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Aye,” Killian nods. “It’s not as if Neverland granted me multiple lifetimes, Swan. Just an elongated one. So bringing you to Neverland wouldn’t really do much to help your current medicinal situation.”   
  
She gags, eyes rolling towards the ceiling and for the first time since this whole debacle has started, Killian is certain it’s not because she, as so aptly put, _feels like she’s going to die_. He’s not sure if she realized what that did to his heart. And possibly his soul.

Stopped it, or paused it, or made it split right down the middle, terror he hadn’t felt in _years_ flashing down his spine, as strong and as sudden as it had when death was a very real threat and he’s been sleeping in the rocking chair in the corner of the room.

“It’s really unfair that you’re still so articulate when I know you’re sleeping like absolute garbage every night,” Emma says, but there’s a hitch to her voice that does something else to every sentimental thing Killian’s decidedly exhausted brain can come up with.

He licks his lips. And tries to tuck the blankets further underneath her.

Emma laughs softly, and it turns into a cough quicker than he’d like, raspy and worrying and he’s been in this realm long enough to know that, reasonably, none of this is life threatening. The actual doctor in town promised that – several times, and once with his eyes flitting towards Killian’s hook every other word because he might not be a villain anymore, but he’d like to believe he’s still a little bit menacing.

“Henry totally gave you up,” Emma continues, and he’ll be the one taking medicine if he keeps snapping his neck towards her like that. She smiles.

And everything rights itself for a moment.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, sure you don’t,” she says, smile growing despite the hair matted to her forehead and the lack of any real color in her cheeks. “You’re the realm’s worst liar.”   
  
“I beg to differ. I believe Henry’s a far worse liar than I am.”   
  
“Ah, that’s just because he grew up with a lie detector mom and a pirate dad and something about no insubordination on the crew, right?”   
  
“Something like that,” Killian agrees. He clicks his tongue when Emma tries to wriggle free of her blanket prison, but she must be warm under there and it can only be a matter of time until her fever breaks. Or so he keeps telling himself.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”  
  
“I really don’t think that’s something you need to be worried about.”   
  
“What did you just say? I beg to differ? That can’t be good for your back.”   
  
Killian arches an eyebrow. “Are you concerned about my back, love?”   
  
“Yes, because you’re old, Captain. And speaking as someone who’s spent a good amount of time in that rocking chair, it may look nice and help our kid fall asleep, but I think it was a torture device in another life.”   
  
His laugh seems to fly out of him, loud and a little unhinged and he honestly can’t remember the last time he slept through the night. “You’re rather preoccupied with the meaning of life today, aren’t you?”

“I can’t actually stand up. It’s given me plenty of time to ponder the great questions of the universe.”  
  
“How existential of you.”   
  
“I really need you to stop talking like a dictionary,” Emma mumbles, a note of familiarity in her voice that Killian is certain clears the air and makes his lungs feel less pinched in his chest. “Plus, I don’t know if it’s that impressive. It’s more just boredom and frustration--”   
  
“--Whale said you couldn’t get out of bed for longer than a few minutes until your vision stopped going spotty, Swan.”   
  
“Yeah, well, what does he know? Do we even know he’s a real doctor? Maybe he’s just trying to use me for science experiments or something.”   
  
Killian refuses to be held accountable for whatever his face does at _that_ , a twist of lips and turn of brows and Emma squeezes one eye shut when she realizes what she’s said. “I’m going to blame the flu on everything I’ve said since you woke me up,” she mutters. “That’s within my sick person rights, right?”   
  
“I’m not sure there was actually a charter written, Swan.”   
  
“You should write one then. Forced to deal with the Savior’s inability to cope while being cooped up in her own room with her mother’s shitty stitching to comfort her.”   
  
“I don’t think I’d use that wording specifically.”   
  
Emma scoffs, another cough instead of a laugh and she really has to take this medicine because there was a schedule and Killian is hopeful Whale is the doctor he’s always claimed he is. Even if he did cower a little bit in the hallway.

“I’d give you editorial control,” Emma says, like those words make much sense at all. She kicks at the blankets, huffing and groaning and Killian’s back does not appreciate the twist he puts it in to make sure she doesn’t inadvertently choke herself. “A gentleman,” she mumbles.

“Aye, well, the stitching does seem to be putting up a fairly good fight and you’re not at your particular best.”  
  
“Wow, rough review.”   
  
“It’s because you refuse to take the medicine, Swan.”   
  
She grumbles, a string of curses he’s mildly impressed by tumbling out of her mouth. “I’m really not sure I appreciate you harping on the medicine,” she sighs. “My mom was doing the same thing, and then my dad was doing that thing with his face whenever anyone talks about Whale, and, like, seriously, all macabre jokes aside, are we sure he’s an actual doctor?”   
  
“I haven’t demanded to see his credentials, but I don’t think he’d run the risk of actually lying to my face.”   
  
Emma’s eyes widen slightly, trying to shift her weight onto her elbows and that lasts all of two seconds before it’s more of a challenge than moving the blankets. “Did you defend my honor against the freaky doctor?”   
  
“I don’t know what you’re suggesting, love.”   
  
“You did, didn’t you,” she cries, shooting up like she’s not battling the goddamn flu and there isn’t a questionable amount of stew _something_ in their kitchen, and Killian catches her around the waist when she wobbles forward. She’s still sitting in bed. “Shit,” Emma breathes, eyes closed and a muscle in her throat working when she swallows. “That was the worst mistake ever. God, why are you so gallant?”   
  
“Gallant?” Killian echoes. She nods against his shoulder. “Swan, I really need you to lay back down. And then take the medicine--”   
  
“--No, no, you’re so comfortable,” she whines, and Gods help him, he’s a questionably quick lost cause. “You know you smell absolutely fantastic. It’s so stupid, I hate it.”   
  
He tries not to laugh, far too aware of what that would do to her center of balance and they’re dangerously close to ruining the medicine schedule. “I think you may be delirious, darling.”   
  
“See, it’s ridiculous nonsense like that. Who calls people _darling_ in real life?”   
  
“I call you darling quite often. I can’t believe you just called my romantic tendencies nonsense.”   
  
“Ah, well, they are. And you’re avoiding my question. And I need you to not move like...for the rest of the day.”   
  
Killian chuckles, lips ghosting over her temple and that’s comforting in the same way his litany of endearments are – as if they’re grounding him or mooring him or some other naval pun that would probably make Emma roll her eyes and smile anyway. “I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he promises. “I’m also not ignoring you. I’m trying to keep us on schedule.”   
  
“You’ve been talking to my mom too much.”   
  
“And the aforementioned doctor.”

Emma hums, burrowing further into his shoulder until her chin is threatening to pinch the skin there and it’s the most comfortable he’s been in a week. At least. That rocking chair is the absolute worst thing they own. “Y’know, I don’t even know what realm he’s from,” she muses. “Is it here? I mean...Frankenstein was just science, right?”

“I’m sure it was.”  
  
“You don’t have to placate me.”   
  
“See that’s where you’re wrong, love, that would be the first several rules on our _Dealing with a Sick Savior_ charter.”   
  
“Seems like a kind of wordy title, honestly.”   
  
“I’d have to ask the lad for his opinion,” Killian says, leaning back slightly so he can smirk at his wife and she rolls her eyes. Right on schedule. “And,” he adds. “I’m not sure where the doctor is from, nor do I entirely care as long as he holds up his end of the bargain and the medicine helps.”

“There was a bargain?” Emma asks skeptically. “Or a challenge?”  
  
“A discussion.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“Honestly, Swan,” Killian says, doing his best to sound as honest as possible and he knows it doesn’t work as soon as the words are out of his mouth. And it’s not because of the lie detector or super power or anything except _life_ and this and them and he’s a complete and utter mess of worry. He’s certain Snow White knew that too.

He’s not entirely convinced Snow White isn’t omniscient.

“You should probably apologize to him at some point,” Emma mutters. She takes a deep breath, body moving enough that Killian can feel it against his and it only takes a little maneuvering to get them back into the mountain of pillows at the head of the bed.

And while the blankets may be the work of Storybrooke and several high-ranking members of the all-realm, the pillows are theirs, a product of life in the Swan-Jones house and how much Emma appreciates decorative pillows. She promises they’re _stupid_ and _unnecessary_ but Killian’s never seen anyone delight more in finding the most ridiculous patterns or most absurd decorations and there are some in the hall closet with actual tassels and a frankly offensive amount of glitter on them.

His wife is a pirate of the pillow variety.

Killian leans back against them, doing his best to make sure none of them poke where they shouldn’t, and Emma curls against his side with practiced ease, head on his chest and arm flung over his stomach. He lets his fingers drift over her back, tracing patterns against the line of her spine and the curve of her hip and there’s not much too it, just mindless, subconscious shifts in his arm that are as normal anything, but he’d be the liar he promises he isn’t if he said he wasn’t trying to remind himself she was there.

And fine.

Healthy, even.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Emma mumbles, the words tinged with sleep and a distinct lack of any foul-tasting medicine.

“I’m still not sure what it is you’re suggesting I did, Swan.”

“Did he freak when you did the hook thing?”  
  
“Hook thing?”

She makes a noise of agreement, stretching slightly to brush the pad of her fingers over curved steel. “You don’t quite brandish it, but you kind of...I don’t know, shift on your feet and move your arm and your eyebrows do something.”  
  
“Should I repeat myself about your delirium?” Killian asks, and it’s really his worst deflection yet. He can’t feel Emma’s smile through the worn fabric of his t-shirt, is still cognizant enough to know that it’s a totally unreasonable thought, but he kind of wants it and he doesn’t have to look to know her lips have, in fact, quirked up.

“No,” she grumbles. “But I bet it freaked Whale out. That plus my dad’s face thing, you guys probably could have gotten him to agree to anything.”  
  
“I was mostly just concerned with your well-being, love.”   
  
“That’s more ridiculous, romantic nonsense.”   
  
“Aye, it is.”   
  
“Not even an argument, huh?”   
  
“Hardly seems to be much of a point, does there? You’ve got that lovely superpower and I figure if I woo you enough, you’ll maybe agree to take your medicine.”   
  
Emma clicks her tongue, flipping her head and her hair makes a valiant effort of finding its way towards Killian’s mouth, but he gets admittedly distracted when she kisses where her lips land. “Guilt tripping the sickly, Captain,” she mutters. “That’s dastardly.”   
  
“And you were complimenting my vocabulary before.”   
  
“I don’t remember any compliments.”   
  
“Ah, must have been my own delirium. The one where you weren’t the worst invalid in several realms.”   
  
“Just some of them? Wow, guess I’ve got to step up my sick game.”   
  
“Swan,” Killian sighs, but he’s certain he can still feel her smiling and her fingers are still holding onto his hook.

“I can’t believe you did the hook thing in front of Whale. And my dad.”  
  
“Your father was nowhere to be seen at that point,” Killian says, and Emma makes a noise that he knows is interest and possibly something else that isn’t fair to either of them when she’s incapable of standing up. “Although, I do think that helped. Whale had spent most of the afternoon facing the prince’s rather impressive stare and then, as you so articulately pointed out, I may have--”   
  
“--Done the hook thing?”   
  
“The hook thing,” Killian confirms, and Emma’s shoulders shake slightly when she laughs.

“It’s weird he’s still kind of holding onto that though. I mean...Whale and, you know, my mom. That’s weird, right? It’s been literally years.”  
  
Killian considers that for a moment, a train of thought that’s growing increasingly difficult with the steady feel of Emma’s breathing against his and whatever her feet are doing – trying to twist between his legs and steal some of his heat and they’ve managed to kick half the blankets onto the ground.

“That means he’s from the Enchanted Forest, right?” Emma presses. “Whale, I mean. He was in the first curse, so he must have been in the Enchanted Forest when it was cast.”  
  
“I believe those were the rules.”

“Did they have a lot of medical schools in the Enchanted Forest?”  
  
“That wasn’t really my area of expertise,” Killian admits, drawing another laugh out of Emma and maybe he can call Henry to, discreetly, bring them some food later. Snow White will probably find out anyway. “There were schools of higher learning though. Some of them were rather impressive. Or so they’d like you to believe.”   
  
“You not big on the stuffed shirts, babe?”

He kisses her hair before he considers all the reasons he probably shouldn’t, and the years don’t mean much of anything when she mutters her own endearment against his chest. Her fingers have left his hook, shifting instead to the chains and charms around his neck and Killian tries not to breathe too much, certain it’ll break something or shatter something else, and it had been Emma’s favorite thing to do when she was pregnant with Hope.

She’d curl against his side, legs twisted together and his hand on the swell of her stomach while she toyed with the questionably old trinkets around his neck, asking questions and demanding stories and she usually fell asleep before he actually finished any of them.

Emma tilts her head up when he doesn’t answer immediately, eyes a bit wider than usual and as green as ever and he hopes that means they’re close to the end of all of this. Her fingers don’t leave his chest.

“Not as such,” Killian says, a flash of a grin that might be a smirk and the sound he makes when her nails scratch against his skin isn’t his fault at all.

“It’s weird though, right?”  
  
“You’re speaking in tongues, love.”   
  
Emma raps her knuckles against him, quick for how slow she’d been moving just a few days before, but slow by all other standards and it’s more than enough time for Killian to catch her around the wrist. He pulls her hand up, brushing his lips over the bend of her knuckles and for the first time since she’d collapsed in the sheriff's station, Emma’s shuddering breath doesn’t absolutely terrify him.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Killian says, not bothering to pull her hand away from his mouth.

“Whale was still a doctor when he got here. In that first curse. That didn’t happen for everyone though. Not everyone was what they were in the Enchanted Forest, just, like...modern versions. I mean...my mom was a teacher and my dad was…” She scrunches her nose. “Well, you know, in a coma or whatever. God, that was an awful curse.”  
  
“Again, I believe those were part of the rules, love. And I’d imagine some of it had to do with Regina as well.”   
  
“How you figure?”   
  
Killian shrugs, shifting further down the bed. More blankets fall onto the floor. “Well, it was her curse,” he reasons. “And, as you say, some cursed identities were worse than others.”   
  
“You think she was...what? Secretly rewarding Whale?”   
  
“I am merely hypothesizing and wondering if you’ll be able to drink this medicine while half asleep.”   
  
“You’re obsessed with the medicine.”   
  
“And your overall health, Swan. I believe those were the terms of our agreement.”   
  
She scoffs, a kiss to the side of his neck and fingers working across the expanse of his stomach and it’s getting more and more difficult to keep his eyes open. “Romantic, even when you’re not trying,” she accuses.

“That’s a genuine talent of mine.”

Emma hums again, distracted and for a moment he’s concerned she’s going to fall asleep without taking the medicine, but then her elbows digging into his stomach and there’s a serious look on her face that belies how often she’s promised she’s _dying_ in the last seventy-two hours.

Killian blinks. “What?”  
  
“What do you think you would have been?”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“How have we never talked about this before?”   
  
“Swan, honestly, if you don’t start making a bit more sense, I’m going to call the fake doctor again.”

“I knew you didn’t think he was a real doctor,” Emma cries, wobbling slightly and that only serves to dig her elbow further into what feels like several different internal organs. “But, seriously, what do you think?”  
  
“Neither one of us has had enough sleep for this conversation, love.”   
  
Her nose is going to stay permanently scrunched if she keeps doing that. It’s equally the most absurd and endearing thing Killian has ever seen.

“You really don’t have to keep sleeping in that torture chair. It’d...I mean...it’d be kind of nice if you were here. Being warm.”  
  
“Is this your way of telling me you’re only using me for my body temperature?”   
  
“It’s definitely a perk,” Emma admits, finally moving her elbow out of his stomach and she fits very well against his side. “Plus, I hate sleeping by myself now. It weirds me out.”   
  
“Your eloquence stuns me on a regular basis, Swan.”   
  
“And you are the single most frustrating man in all the realms. Alright, pirate, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll drink your garbage medicine, with only minimal complaining and promises that it’ll probably kill me at some point, if you answer my question.”   
  
“What’s the question?”   
  
“No, that’s not part of the rules.” She twists, far too much of her touching far too much of him and Killian widens his eyes in warning. Emma ignores him, thrusting her hand out and wiggling her fingers like he doesn’t notice her limbs streaking through the air. “Well, Captain,” she says. “Do we have an accord?”   
  
He kisses her knuckles in response.

And Emma does, as promised, complain quite loudly about the flavor of the medicine, and the texture of the medicine, glaring when Killian points out _it’s a liquid, Swan, I don’t believe it can have a texture_ , rolling her tongue out and gagging and he has to bite his lip to resist the urge to tell her _she’s worse than Hope when we try to get her to eat bananas_.

“Alright,” Emma says pointedly, as soon as the cover is back on the medicine and she’s back against Killian’s side and his fingers can’t help but move across her back. Her eyes flutter shut when he brushes across skin. “That’s distracting.”  
  
“That’s not my fault. Perhaps you’re just tired.”   
  
“I’m exhausted, but we had a deal. You can’t back out on that.”   
  
“I’m sure I can do whatever I want, actually, Swan,” Killian argues. “Not only because you complained far more than the terms of the deal allowed and because you’re half asleep, already.”   
  
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”   
  
He chuckles, inhaling and she’d showered the night before, his hand around her waist while the water sprayed over her, but the scent of her shampoo still lingers in her hair and maybe they should talk about that whole shower situation again when there hasn’t already been so much discussion of death.

“What’s your question, Swan?”  
  
“Do you think you would have gotten a good cursed identity from Regina and do you think…” She cuts herself off, licking her lips and glancing up cautiously at him. He doesn’t mention she’s asking two questions. He’s far too curious. “Do you think,” Emma continues. “You would have still--”   
  
“--Been completely enthralled by you?”

She rolls her eyes. He smirks.

“Something like that,” she says, repeating his words from earlier. “But, like, I don’t know...maybe not enthralled. Were you enthralled by me?”  
  
Killian nods. “Did you not think I was?”   
  
“You were a liar. Straight lying to my face.”   
  
“That hardly meant I’d lost my ability to be enthralled,” he points out. “Or notice how stunning you were. Even with the dead bodies.”   
  
“Yeah, nothing says romance like dead bodies.”   
  
“Don’t forget the knife to my throat.”   
  
“Again, you were lying, babe. Straight to my face. And plotting against me.”   
  
He nods, lips ghosting over the top of her head and that shampoo may be his favorite scent in the world. “Aye, but it didn’t take long for me to disregard that particular notion,” he says, the words catching despite his best efforts at flippant. Emma doesn’t tense, they’re far past those nerves and concerns and several other difficult words, but they’re also still them and reminiscing requires a rather daunting look at their former selves. “I think I would have,” Killian adds.

“Would have what?”  
  
“Cursed or not, memories or not, dead bodies or just you promising you’re well on your way to becoming one. I would have noticed. And been rather immediately enthralled.”

She’s still for a moment, as if she’s processing the words and the promise, and it’s been years, children and pillows and an entire town that will provide blankets to ensure that Emma isn’t cold, but Killian knows it still means just as much as it ever has, a certainty and a comfort and a _want_ that might just be the general feeling of coming home.

To each other.

“My parents still kind of knew,” Emma whispers. “Not like...I mean there was that whole Whale thing, but that was mostly Mom trying to forget Dad and there was the whole Kathryn debacle, but, you know, cursed or whatever excuse and--”  
  
“--True love conquers all,” Killian finishes, and it’s not a question. It might be another promise. He’s exhausted.

“Yeah. Plus, we’re totally beating them now.”  
  
“Was it a competition?”   
  
“Probably only in my head,” she admits with a soft laugh. “But, you know, what did my parents have? One true love kiss and like that sapling thing? C’mon. We’re way more impressive. God-ordained and the flower thing and more...gods.”   
  
“Aye, we’re definitely winning on the god front.”   
  
“I knew you were as weirdly competitive as me.”   
  
“It’s a rather strong pirate characteristic,” Killian grins, letting the ends of Emma’s hair card through his fingers. “Boasting about treasures and hordes and the like.”   
  
“Am I horde?”   
  
“And a rather impressive treasure.”   
  
“Charmer.” Killian nods, not entirely sure when he ended up flat on his back or what time it is, but he’s not sure he cares either and Emma’s eyes are already closed. “You didn’t answer my first question though. About your cursed-ness. What do you think you’d have been?”   
  
“I doubt it’d be anything good. The Queen and I weren’t quite in league when she was preparing to cast the curse.”   
  
“Yeah, that whole betrayal thing probably would have screwed you over.”   
  
“Decidedly.”   
  
“I bet you’d make a better bartender than Scarlet.”   
  
“I’m going to tell him you said that.”   
  
Emma groans. “Aw, c’mon, that’s rude. I’m dying.”   
  
“There you go breaking promises again, Swan.”

She clicks her teeth, but her arm is back across his stomach and her fingers curl around his hook again, like she’s trying to keep herself on this plane or next to him, and they’re equally absurd and incredibly sentimental thoughts. “Thanks for putting up with my complaining,” she mutters.

“I believe that was part of the deal.”  
  
And for half a moment he thinks she’s fallen asleep, just the steady rise and fall of her shoulders and the quiet sound of her breathing, barely audible with her face tucked into his shoulder, but then there’s another question and Killian’s smile doesn’t feel as out of place as it should in a room that will probably have to be disinfected soon.

“Say that again,” he challenges, and Emma laughs quietly.

“I said that maybe….I mean, we were in the past and that was kind of the first time I thought this could be...be, I guess. And there was some fairly serious making out.” He grunts, mostly for the response it elicits and the smile it warrants he was so _worried._ Henry thought he was being ridiculous. “Anyway,” Emma continues. “It’s possibly possible that there were some seeds or sapling things or something, right?”   
  
Killian nods. “That possibly grew into a beanstalk.”   
  
“Cyclical, huh?”   
  
“I’m not sure you can make that claim when actual time travel is involved, love, but it seems wrong to argue with an invalid.”

He’s entirely ready for her answering curse. Mostly because she learned that word from him.

“Frustrating,” Emma accuses, a distinct lack of insult in the insult. “Go to sleep. And stop sleeping in the chair. It’s stupid. Also I love you. We’re totally winning the true love whatever.”

Killian chuckles, shifting the pillows and turning on his side, pulling Emma flush against his chest until they’re a tangle of limbs and hair and that shampoo scent. Most of the blankets are on the floor. That’s probably for the best.

“I love you too, Swan,” he says, and they don’t wake up until Henry walks into the room with grilled cheese he made himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it with another one from the [The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon) and the ever-continuing saga of Laura writing canon which, apparently, is still connecting and existing in the same universe. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down where I'm also taking [KISS PROMPTS](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/178932047980/fictional-kiss-prompts) because the world is awful and the only way I know how to deal with that is to make fictional characters make out as much as possible.


	27. Burying the Lede

“Swan.”  
  
Emma shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed and there’s something digging into the base of her spine. She ignores that too.

“Swan.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Negative.”  
  
“Swan, I need those photos sized.”  
  
“Get someone else to do it.”  
  
Killian sighs, and Emma chances cracking one eye open. It’s a mistake. She knew it was going to be, but it’s almost kind of nice to be proved right at whatever time it is. It must be close to two in the morning, possibly drifting closer to three. Whatever is digging into her spine is probably going to leave a bruise.

He runs a hand through his hair, rocking back on his heels and it’s the worst thing in the entire world. Worse than production nights on the student newspaper that become production _mornings_ on the student newspaper and they should really come up with a better plan of attack to make sure these barely-making-deadline things stop happening, but the _student_ in student newspaper apparently means a complete disregard for deadlines by most of their staff and no one knows how to size photos except Emma.

Apparently.

And she can’t size the goddamn photos until the layout is finish. Which requires stories.

Killian is still staring at her.

“You can’t actually fall asleep here, love,” he continues, dropping onto the edge of the couch in her corner of the office and there’s a stain directly underneath her right shoe that she’s pretty positive wasn’t there last week. “It can’t be good for your back.”  
  
Emma opens her other eye. That’s also a mistake. She’s, at least, sixty-two percent positive joining this newspaper was a mistake, but Mary Margaret promised it would be a good idea and it’ll probably, _definitely_ , look good on a résumé and now she gets to go to pretty much every event on campus for free and take pictures.

Plus she’s fairly certain that _Alternative Press_ internship is going to happen.

At least seventy-four percent.

Killian would tell her it’s one-hundred percent. Emma wishes he’d stop staring at her like that. She wishes she moved whatever is doing permanent damage to her spine.

“And you’re worried about my back?” Emma asks. Killian’s lips quirk.

“I’m worried about all of you, if we’re being perfectly honest. It can’t be good for your sleeping patterns to be falling asleep everywhere like that.”  
  
“It’s a talent few possess.”  
  
He grins, slow and easy, like he wants to keep doing that forever when he looks her direction and Emma’s not capable of doing any sort of math when he looks at her like that.

She’s not really ever capable of doing any math, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Something like that,” Killian laughs, leaning forward to tug on the front of her school-branded sweatshirt. “This looks awfully familiar, Swan.”  
  
His school-branded sweatshirt. The specifics don’t matter.

They matter more than anything, but Emma figures that’s not really all that important at whatever time it is with a deadline looming and she can’t hear David pacing. That’s a warning sign.

“You shouldn’t leave things where they’re not supposed to be then,” Emma mutters, twisting to try and sit up, but Killian’s in the way and the thing she’s laying on has now moved to attack the right side of her hip.

She must do something with her face, a grimace or a hiss of pain, because Killian’s eyes are suddenly wide and far too blue to be entirely fair, and Emma genuinely has no idea what happens next. She desperately hopes she’s not still asleep. She’s, like, fifty-three percent positive this is a dream she’s had once.

Several times.

Every other week.

The specifics of that don’t matter either.

Killian leans over her, an arm around her waist and fingers inexplicably move over her hip and Emma makes a noise that is both too loud and too emotional to be entirely acceptable in the newspaper office, but she’s suddenly rolling onto her side and he grins again – there’s a recorder in his hand.

“How did you not realize this was here?” Killian asks, standing back up to stuff the stupid thing in the back pocket of his jeans. Absurdly tight jeans. Always tight jeans. It’s suddenly very warm in that office.

“I did,” Emma says. “I just didn’t really care. Also, I’m really good at sleeping through pain.”  
  
“That’s the saddest sentence I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“Incorrect. You didn’t read that opinion piece David was editing before. Chock full of sad, horrible, grammatically incorrect sentences.”  
  
“Ah, see, you’re assuming things again, Swan. Not only did I read the opinion story, but I was the one who told David to go take a walk before he actually called the kid to tell him what a god awful writer he was.”  
  
That grin is the single worst thing in the entire world. Emma tilts her head, propping herself up on her elbows and she hopes her heartbeat doesn’t sound as loud in that office as it does in her ears. She figures Mary Margaret would let her know.

Mary Margaret is probably with David.

“See,” Killian continues, holding his hand out expectantly. “Now you absolutely owe me properly sized photos. Because we finally got that movie review two people are going to read.”  
  
Emma laughs, some of the inexplicable nerves in her stomach evaporating when her pulse returns to a normal, human level. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” she argues, and it’s mostly for the sake of arguing and because she really likes talking to Killian and she doesn’t hate that grin nearly as much as she keeps trying to tell herself she does.

“Is it not?”  
  
“This is not some kind of quid pro quo thing. Are you even qualified to be reading opinion articles? Doesn’t seem very entertainment’y.”  
  
“Ah, wrong again, Swan. I was incredibly entertained by how bad that writing was. Also, I think you’ve just proved I’m far more qualified than you by your use of the word entertainment’y.”  
  
“Not a word?”  
  
“Definitely not a word.”  
  
Emma makes a dismissive noise in the back of her throat, finally sitting up and shaking her hair off her shoulders and she probably doesn’t bump her legs against Killian’s on purpose when she swings her feet back onto the floor. His lips move again anyway. “That’s incredibly disappointing,” she mutters, taking his hand when he starts to wiggle his fingers. “God, you are the most impatient entertainment editor in the world.”  
  
“And you’re slacking off on your photo editor duties, love.”  
  
“Wow, rude.”  
  
Killian shakes his head, lower lip jutted out and Emma’s not entirely prepared for him to pull her flush against his chest. She’s not entirely sure he’s ready for her to land there either, though, because his eyes go wide again and his mouth opens slightly, a quiet exhale that sounds almost nervous and a little hopeful and her pulse is doing that thing again.

So, naturally, the door opens.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” David asks, any calm he acquired during the pacing exercise outside disappearing as soon as he walks back into the office. Mary Margaret rolls her eyes towards the ceiling.

There’s a stain there too.

They are woefully mistreated by the campus community. It’s a miracle they haven’t been forced into a basement somewhere.

“Maybe you should do some yoga, David,” Killian suggests, fingers still wrapped up in Emma’s. “I bet we could find some breathing tricks on the internet.”  
  
“Shut up, Jones.”

“You’re proving my point.”  
  
“And it’s already been talked about,” Mary Margaret mutters, twisting around David to get back to her computer and the front page she was designing before Emma fell asleep. They’re definitely going to miss their deadline.

Killian chuckles. “You should listen to Mary Margaret, David. It can’t be healthy for you to be stressed out this much every week.”  
  
“You read that story?” David challenges, but Killian’s already nodding and his thumb has started tapping on the back of Emma’s wrist. Like it’s keeping time with her incredibly erratic pulse. “It was bad. Like it literally hurt me to read it.”  
  
“That’s not the way that word works,” Emma mumbles, drawing another laugh out of Killian and David’s eyes narrow.

“You size your photos, Emma?”  
  
“You are not the editor of this newspaper, David.”  
  
“And you’re falling asleep everywhere. It’s unnatural.”  
  
“Nah, it’s one of her many talents,” Killian argues, and Emma is briefly concerned her heart actually flies out of her chest. Mary Margaret knocks a cup full of pens on the ground.

Emma widens her eyes, meeting David’s gaze like she’s reacting to a very specific type of challenge and she’s always been the single most stubborn person in the world. It’s probably why she won’t let anyone else size her photos.

It’s a control thing.

She’s kind of a control freak.

She really wants this internship.

And to keep stealing Killian Jones’ sweatshirts.

“See,” Emma says, and David’s expression doesn’t change. “Plus I’m awake now and I can’t actually do anything until you guys do. Maybe you’re the problem, David.”  
  
Mary Margaret make another noise – something that might be an agreement or just general support and David looks stunned. Emma practically beams. “Whatever,” he grumbles. “Not all of us have fantastic staffers who write thousand word epics and we can finish our section by ten o’clock on Tuesday night.”  
  
“I think you’re jealous of Belle.”  
  
“I don’t know how she does it. She’s got like a whole legion of devoted people who only want to write for her and--”  
  
“--Maybe you should take that as some kind of sign,” Killian mutters, but the words get caught in Emma’s hair when he ducks his head towards her ear and there are goosebumps on her arm. She hopes he doesn’t notice.

He totally notices.

It’s that stupid hitch in his breath. It makes it almost too obvious. And Emma is frozen in the middle of the office, lip pulled tightly between her teeth and a sweatshirt that isn’t hers and Mary Margaret’s trying to pick pens up off the floor.

“Finish your section, Jones,” David says, but there’s a distinct lack of threat in his voice and they’ll probably still make deadline. They always make deadline.

Killian nods, cheek still dangerously close to Emma’s hair, and he doesn’t let go of her hand when he directs her towards his desk. It’s on the opposite side of the office from her corner, a metaphor she’s not particularly interested in acknowledging, but it’s definitely the best decorated space in the minimal amount of space they have.

There are pictures everywhere, tacked up and taped up and Emma’s taken, at least, three-quarters of them. She wishes she could stop trying to do math. But there are concerts and assignments they’ve gone on together and her own face smiles back at her more than once from a variety of glossy paper when she all but collapses into Killian’s chair.

He’s grinning at her when she glances over her shoulder.

“Just make yourself at home.”  
  
“Your photos,” Emma points out. “And poor time-management skills.”  
  
Killian shakes his head, leaning over her and grabbing the mouse to click on a handful of files and several different layouts and he’s really good at that. The layout and the leaning. The entertainment section of the paper isn’t so much a section as it is an insert, a six to eight-page magazine every week, filled with reviews and photos and Killian usually gets more color than any other section, a fact that drives Merida insane because _sports deserves some too_ , but his layout designs are too good not to be seen in picture-perfect color.

Emma’s not sure she’s ever told him that.

There’s a flow to them, an easy path for the eye to follow with catchy headlines and good font choices and her photos add to the stories rather than just overwhelm them because Killian writes most of the stories in the entertainment section too.

She’s pretty positive he’s fantastic at everything.

And he’s been talking this whole time.

“What?” Emma blinks, leaning back far enough that her head crashes into Killian’s chest. She can _hear_ him smile. This is reaching absurd levels.

“Swan, were you not listening to me?”  
  
“I was absolutely listening.”  
  
“It does not seem that way.”  
  
“Are we going to go back to what happens when you assume?” she asks, twisting again and she needs to stop making the same mistake over and over. That’s a sign of something, right? Impending insanity? A crush that is ridiculous because you work on the same student newspaper staff and that’s almost too cliché because everyone else on this newspaper staff is already dating one another? Probably one of those things.

Killian’s eyebrows shift, a flash in his gaze and his fingers are warm when they wrap around Emma’s shoulder, turning the chair back towards the computer. “Twelve photos, love,” he says softly. “Not including the cover which is done, but the sizes are all written there.” He taps on the pad of paper she absolutely had _not_ noticed before. It’s absurd. “If you want to use that one from the show the other day with the light and the--”

“--The backlit one from the dance thing?”  
  
She’s absolutely insane, because she looks back over her shoulder, but he’d done something absolutely stupid when he’d seen _that_ photo, ranted and raved and complimented her until the heat of her own blush lingered in her cheeks long after he’d walked her back to her dorm.

He always makes sure he walks her back to her dorm.

That’s when the sweatshirt theft had happened.

And it’s not really a grin or a smirk, whatever is happening to his face – it feels kind of bigger and more important and a little terrifying, but also kind of exciting and Killian nods slowly, like anything more will ruin the mood at, possibly, two in the morning in the student newspaper office.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That one. Front and center. Please and thank you.”  
  
Emma blinks. That’s her worst mistake yet. “Please and thank you, huh?” she asks, and she’s loathe to realize her voice is just as breathless. “What manners. Some would think you’re some kind of gentleman.”  
  
“Always.”  
  
There’s something there, just on the edge of his voice and the last syllable of the word, and Emma’s eyes snap up quickly enough that she’s worried she’ll give herself a migraine, but that may just be because Mary Margaret has started playing YouTube videos and they’ve clearly dissolved into the _everyone is exhausted_ portion of production night.

Killian's shoulders droop when he sighs.

“Yeah, ok,” Emma says, tone clipped when she tries to swallow the words as soon as she says them. “You might want to make sure David doesn’t dissolve into hysterics. Also I can’t think when you’re lurking like that.”

He laughs again, short and soft and Emma’s heart lurches at the sound. She’s an idiot. And she really needs to resize these photos.

“Can do, Swan,” Killian says. He squeezes her shoulder once before he walks away and she’s certain the feel of lingers on her skin for the rest of the night.

Or morning. Whatever.

She ends up falling asleep again, legs twisted underneath her in Killian’s chair with a different sweatshirt tucked under her head, and they make deadline because Mary Margaret is incapable of _not_ making deadline and Emma’s not surprised to find herself jerked awake again. Killian’s hand is back on her shoulder.

“C’mon love,” he says, already holding his other hand out. “Up and at ‘em.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Did you not hear me the first time? That’s a real saying, I swear it is.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe if you’re living several centuries ago.”  
  
“I feel almost confident guaranteeing that no one during the American Revolution used the phrase up and at ‘em. My brother, however…”  
  
“Sounds like an American Revolutionary general,” Emma grouses, but she takes his hand and he should be studied. He’s warm all the time. It’s unnatural. “Also, why that time period? Was that the latest you think they didn’t say that phrase?”  
  
Killian shakes his head, a normal, _familiar_ move and Emma doesn’t argue when an arm works its way around her waist. She fits very well against him, another half-asleep thought she probably shouldn’t be having, but wants to continue having, because she’d very much like to make out with Killian Jones’ very attractive face.

Even if that attractive face refuses to let her sleep in the newspaper office.

“You’re starting to speak in tongues, love,” he says, supporting most of her weight and there’s no one else in that office. That gives Emma pause. “Mary Margaret and David went to get some food. I’d rather not have to carry you around after you face plant into that food, so we’re going home and you can eat once you recharge.”  
  
“That’s both rude and an incredibly lame way to say go back to sleep.”  
  
“Yes, well, I’m also running on, approximately, forty-five minutes of sleep and I’ve got class at ten o’clock, so…”  
  
“Your fault for taking classes on Wednesday,” Emma mumbles. Her eyes are starting to drift closed again, head falling against his shoulder and it will probably be their most impressive accomplishment to date if they get her back to her room without breaking several limbs.

Killian doesn’t say anything, and for half a moment Emma wonders if she’s crossed some kind of line she didn’t know was actually there. But he’s still smiling at her when she glances up and she’d definitely fall in her food.

“C’mon, love,” he says. “Another dominant week of cropping photos means you deserve a few hours uninterrupted rest.”

They don’t really say much on their walk across campus, but they rarely do, only pausing long enough for Killian to order enough espresso _to do permanent damage to your heart_ at the coffee cart outside the library. He ignores her medical promises, just takes an exaggerated sip and does something absurd with his eyebrows and tugs her keys out of her pocket without asking.

He never asks.

That does something ridiculous to Emma’s pulse too.

“Several hours, Swan,” Killian says, kicking the door open behind her when the lock clicks. “I don’t want to hear from you until after I get out of whatever class I have.”  
  
“Interviewing 200. How do you not know that?”  
  
“Must be delirious from exhaustion.”  
  
“Or you just like me memorizing your schedule.”  
  
She might be delirious from exhaustion. That’s, really, the only excuse. And Killian’s face doesn’t really change, but it might settle into something almost hard, far too even and straight and there’s absolutely no quirk to his lips. His eyebrows stay frustratingly still.

Emma’s heart sinks into her feet. It’s difficult to hear her pulse there.

“Several hours of uninterrupted sleep,” she promises, reaching blindly behind her for the door handle and Killian nods brusquely as she all but sprints towards her bed.

She doesn’t crash onto the mattress, which, small miracles, she supposes, but it’s awfully close and her phone ends up on the ground in the process. She resolutely refuses to pick it up.

And, really, the whole thing is her own goddamn fault.

Or, well, it’s kind of Mary Margaret’s fault because Mary Margaret was the one who suggested they join the student newspaper their freshman year to _meet people_ like that’s the place to meet people, but someone handed Emma a camera and, essentially, changed her life, so she figures it’s not all bad. And she had absolutely no plans of meeting anyone else any other way, honestly.

Emma Swan does not, usually, do people. She does quiet and standoff’ish-ness, which isn’t a word either, but that’s how it’s always been and she’s really good at falling asleep anywhere because she's had a lot of practice and kids cry in foster homes. All the time.

She figured she’d come to college and get her degree and stay as under the radar as possible because that’s what they teach kids in foster homes. Don’t be too loud. Don’t attract attention. Don’t scare off perspective parents. Except there weren’t ever any parents for Emma, and college was some kind of miracle bestowed upon her by the universe for the rest of the shit she’d dealt with. She was certain.

And then the universe her bestowed her Mary Margaret Blanchard.

They met at an orientation icebreaker, randomly paired up, or dictated by fate, depending on whether or not you asked Mary Margaret or Emma, but it ended with friendship and something vaguely resembling devotion and they joined the student newspaper two weeks into their first semester.

 _To meet people_.

Mary Margaret met David two days later. And there were sparks and butterflies and probably a choir of angels somewhere because it felt like another miracle and Emma’s never really believed in anything, but she absolutely believes in them, and David somehow coerced his freshman roommate to write some entertainment story when another reporter flaked.

Killian Jones, the freshman version, was even quieter than Emma. He didn’t do much more than nod her direction when she was in the dorm, but Mary Margaret had gotten Emma to join the student newspaper, so she was going to be damned if she didn’t get Killian to be their friend to.

And he kept writing for the paper – more and more assignments and a few news stories when there weren’t enough entertainment assignments and Emma’s never really sure why it took her so long to read what he wrote, but she’s fairly certain that changed her whole life too.

It was good. Really good. Way better than she expected.

His eyebrows shift when she told him the last one.

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment, Swan,” he’d said, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice and something shifted and Emma had another friend and he started looking at her photos. Sometimes before Mary Margaret. Sometimes he was the only one who saw certain photos.

She doesn’t think he ever realized that.

And somewhere in between learning he has a ridiculous hatred of spring rolls and an older brother he idolizes and the first time he called her _love_ instead of _Swan,_ Emma realized she was some kind of head of heels in love with Killian Jones.

It proves especially problematic when Mary Margaret suggests they all run for editorial positions on the newspaper their junior year and Killian’s eyes flit to Emma’s like he’s asking for permission or doubling checking and she nods because it really is a good idea.

He’s an incredible writer. And she wants that goddamn internship at _Alternative Press_.

She’d like to kiss Killian until he can’t see straight too, but that’s neither here nor there and he’s never said anything. Emma’s a giant coward. Who doesn’t want to mess up her friendship.

Or so she keeps telling herself.

She doesn’t fall asleep that afternoon. And there’s a tiny crack in her phone screen when she, eventually, picks it up, a sign she absolutely does not appreciate because there’s also a text message:

**Mary Margaret and David are apparently doing something incredibly romantic tonight. Chinese food? My couch? Because I don’t want to have to sign into yours.**

**_Wow, you really know how to charm a girl, don’t you? You interview people yet?_ **

**It’s absurd that I have to take a class on how to interview anyone. If I don’t know how to do this by now, I feel like there’s a problem there.**

**Also that’s not an answer to the question, Swan.**

**_Think awfully high of your interviewing talents, don’t you?_ **

**You read that last feature? Award-worthy.**

Emma takes a deep breath, staring at her phone screen like the crack will disappear or her pulse will react normally to anything Killian Jones does and it’s only a matter of time until these feelings disappear. She’s certain.

She’s hopeful.

She’s, like, twenty-three percent optimistic.

That’s a god awful percentage.

**Swaaaaaaaaaaaan.**

**_God you are impatient. You going to let me quote Harry Potter in your face?_ **

**I mean, maybe not directly in my face. That seems kind of aggressive.**

**_I hate you._ **

**No you don’t. You liked that story. You said so. And I’m pretty positive the Chinese place just puts extra spring rolls in the bag whenever I order because they know you’ve got an obsession.**

**_Lies._ **

**These are still not answers, love.**

She has to lick her lips, teeth digging into the side of her tongue until she can taste blood and it’s an extreme reaction to something that happens, literally, every day. That’s the right way to use that word.

And the phone feels impossibly heavy in her hands, the lump in the back of Emma’s throat a mix of disappointment and want and her own stupid, vaguely deep-rooted fears because she’d totally eat four spring rolls while enthusiastically reenacting several scenes in _Goblet of Fire_. If only because it always makes Killian laugh.

**_What time?_ **

**Whenever you want. Come when you’re done with class. We’ll start at Sorcerer's Stone and go from there.**

**_That’s ambitious._ **

**I’m going to order half a dozen spring rolls.**

She doesn’t eat all the spring rolls and they only make it through _Order of the Phoenix_ before Emma falls asleep, her head on Killian’s thigh and his fingers running through her hair and it’s far too much and not enough.

And the semester continues. Because that’s how it works. And there are more production nights and more photos to size and Killian’s eyes do something absolutely ridiculous when Emma shows the photos she took for the theatre show.

“These are incredible, Swan,” he says, a note of honesty that’s unmistakable. She bites her lip.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Why would I lie about that?”  
  
“I don’t think you would,” she shrugs, but it lacks that same honesty. She’s pretty positive Belle and Merida are eavesdropping. They should not have done this in the office. They should not have done this full stop.

Emma isn’t sure what she’d do if they _stopped_ doing this.

Killian glances up – she’s sitting on his desk, perched on the edge with her feet kicking out and her name should probably be there at this point, because, aside from her desk and her couch, it’s the only place Emma actually sits in that office – all wide eyed and imploring and--

“We need to talk about the basketball magazine,” Mary Margaret says, like they aren’t all painfully aware of what they’re doing there.

Emma sighs. Killian closes his eyes.

“Any bets on how quickly and efficiently the stupid thing will kill us this year?” Emma asks, appreciating Killian’s quiet scoff and David’s attempt to not laugh. Merida sounds like she’s growling. She might be already on her way to dying.

“We’re way more organized than the editorial board last year,” she promises, climbing onto her desk like that will make her more authoritative or convince Emma that a thirty-page magazine about two basketball teams the student population of the school only marginally cares about is worth any of their time.

She’s only doing it because the pictures will look good.

“That’s why we’re here,” Mary Margaret continues. Killian mumbles _editor in chief voice_ under his breath, dodging a computer mouse when David throws it his direction.

“Shit, relax with your defensive instincts! I am not questioning the authority of Mary Margaret’s voice, I am merely--”

“--Pointing out that it’s kind of unnecessary,” Emma finishes.

Killian’s face does that thing again.

“God, it’s like you two are wired the same or something,” David grouses. “And the editor voice is totally necessary when you guys are discussing secret things in secret settings.”  
  
“Someday someone’s got to show you what a thesaurus is,” Killian grins.

“I’m going to cut apart all your stories.”  
  
“That’s just rude. Aside from Merida, and maybe, _maybe_ , that one good feature writer Belle has, who do you have on this staff who can profile whatever that kid’s name is?”  
  
“The fact that you don’t know what his name is gives me pause.”  
  
“That good basketball kid.”  
  
“They’re all good basketball kids.”  
  
“Eh.”  
  
“I mean, that’s actually kind of fair,” Merida admits. “They didn’t even make the CBI last year. That’s kind of embarrassing for a school that’s supposed to be some kind of basketball powerhouse or whatever we want to call ourselves.”  
  
“Let’s not use basketball powerhouse,” Killian says. “Sounds far too presumptuous.”  
  
“That’s a good word,” Emma mutters, kicking lightly at the side of his leg and her lungs have started functioning normally again, but that’s only because _this_ is normal and Mary Margaret doesn’t really look at that annoyed.

Mary Margaret really hates the basketball magazine.

“Can we focus, please?” she asks, practically begging out the words and David glares at Killian like it’s explicitly his fault. Killian moves his hand onto Emma’s leg. Probably to stop her from kicking him anymore. Or something. “Killian that kid’s name is...ah, shit, Merida, what’s that guy’s name?”  
  
Merida chuckles, hair draped over the back of her desk chair. “His name is Peterson and Jones’ interview with him is two o’clock on Wednesday because that was the only time he wasn’t going to be on the court or in the gym or--”  
  
“--Not going to class?” Killian mutters.

“You said it, not me. No more than six-thousand, though, I’m serious this time.”  
  
Emma’s eyebrows fly into her hair and even David looks impressed. “Six-thousand?” she repeats. “You wrote six-thousand words about this kid last year?”  
  
Killian shakes his head, but the tips of his ears have gone red too and that’s a sign. Emma hoards all of the signs. Like a packrat. Who’s never seen those signs directed at her before, but desperately wants them.

She’s lost control of her metaphor. She couldn’t write six-thousand words.

“He was a good story last year,” Killian shrugs. “And even better since he’s the only returning talent this team has.”  
  
“Why do you know about this team’s returning talent?” David asks.

“Why don’t you?”  
  
“That’s a fair question,” Emma points out, and her eyes flicker towards Killian before she can stop herself. “Are we taking pictures of this kid at the same time?”  
  
Merida makes a noise that’s some kind of agreement, and David mumbles _obviously_ , and Mary Margaret has finally started to look annoyed because they’ve ruined her meeting schedule.

“I know his name,” David groans. “I just don’t have his stat line memorized. Also, you guys are the worst editorial board in history because Mary Margaret came up with a schedule and it’s color coded and--”  
  
“--Aw, I told you that in confidence,” Mary Margaret shouts, Killian’s whole body falling forward when he laughs. His hair comes dangerously close to Emma’s knee.

“That’s actually kind of nice, M’s,” Emma says. “Super productive and in control.”  
  
Mary Margaret rolls her eyes, but some of the tension that might have only been in Emma’s head disappears and they get through the rest of the meeting with minimal interruptions and only one descent into the YouTube rabbit hole of ridiculous videos of breathing exercises.

They hang the color-coded schedule on the wall above Emma’s desk and stock the fridge with energy drinks and the interview with Peterson goes well.

Great, even. Decidedly close to perfect.

The pictures look good and they let her use the professional lighting the actual photographer employed by the school is usually only granted access to and Emma’s almost confident that production _weekend_ for this goddamn, stupid magazine won’t dissolve into complete chaos.

That changes at, approximately, eleven twenty-six on Friday night.

She’s in the middle of editing photos, changing curves and altering contrast when David yells about _your ringtone, Jones_ and Killian throws an eraser at his head while pulling the phone to his ear. All the color in his face disappears.

“What?” Mary Margaret says sharply, and this magazine was a mistake. Emma hasn’t heard from the people at _Alternative Press_ in weeks.

The two probably aren’t connected. Probably.

“That Peterson kid,” Killian starts, Merida already cursing under her breath and even Belle looks like she wants to throw something. “He, uh...tore his ACL. Tonight.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Emma has never heard Mary Margaret’s voice do that. It rises quickly and loudly, a shrill screech that probably does damage to the windows or, at least, the peeling paint on the walls.

Killian nods. “Didn’t even last five minutes, so says the SID that just called me. How did he get my number?”  
  
“I gave it to him,” Merida answers. She stands up, but Emma’s fairly certain it’s only so she can kick her chair and she’s not sure what happens next. That Peterson kid was their cover story and center piece and the pictures had been so good.

Figures.

“Babe,” David says warily, approaching Mary Margaret like she’s half a second away from an explosion and it kind of looks that way. “If this kid is--”  
  
“--God, why are we calling him a kid,” Mary Margaret interrupts. “He’s our age, right? Killian?”  
  
He nods again. “Yeah. Junior year. He’ll probably redshirt this season now. It’s uh…”  
  
“Are we totally screwed?” Belle asks softly, and Emma doesn’t know why her eyes fly to Killian again, but Mary Margaret might actually be crying or trying very hard not to _actually_ explode and it was his story.

And her photos.

Like some kind of team.

He grins at her.  
  
“We’re going to fix the whole fucking thing,” he promises. Emma believes him.

David might actually whoop. There’s some kind of fist pump involved.

The rest of the night is a whirlwind, demands for comment and _you’ve got to give me something to work with_ and _yes, I know he wasn’t actually trying to tear his ACL, but that doesn’t help my deadline_ and David plays the same breathing exercise video six times somewhere in the realm of two in the morning.

Mary Margaret is a picture of editorial efficiency – reorganizing stories and changing layouts that they agreed on weeks ago because this magazine may be stupid and the largest current source of stress in any of their lives, but she’s almost prepared for the scale of disaster they’re dealing with at the moment. Emma keeps editing photos, but most of their stories were about how the team was going to revolve around Peterson and what he did for everyone else and Merida keeps chanting _didn’t even make the CBI_ under her breath.

She and Belle have spent the last two hours trying to track down their other sports reporters and maybe a few feature writers, but the deadline for the stories was days before and it’s Friday night and no one actually wants to hang out in the newspaper office on Friday night.

Except the five of them. Apparently.

They’re going to have to rewrite everyone’s stories.

This team is woefully bad with Peterson. Emma can only imagine what they’ll be like without him. And, somewhere in the realm of three in the morning, she gets the chance to find out.

“Swan,” Killian yells from the other side of the office. She waves him off, trying to get the levels in this photo right, but then there are footsteps behind her and fingers wrapping around her wrist and he looks somewhere close to overjoyed.

It’s a good look, honestly.  
  
David might actually be jumping up and down.

“I wasn’t done with that,” Emma whines, but she’s starting to go cross-eyed and she’s forgotten what the difference between levels and curves is.

“That’s ok. You’ll probably have to resize it anyway. C’mon, we’ve got to go.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Go,” Killian repeats, and his thumb is doing that thing against her wrist again. “Now. Like. Right now.”

“Where could we possibly have to go right now?”  
  
“Swan,” he sighs, but there’s something in the sound of her own name that makes Emma’s pulse thud against her skin. He probably feels it. His thumb is still doing whatever. “The team just got back to campus. We’ve got, approximately, ten minutes before they get back into dorms and we’re going to--”  
  
“--Oh my God, you want to attack this kid on the sidewalk, don’t you?”  
  
Mary Margaret makes that noise again, David’s attempts to promise _it’s a good plan, babe_ proving pointless. Killian rolls his eyes. “That’s way too aggressive. We’re not going to attack anyone. We’re just going to ask some questions, maybe take some pictures of the brace he’s probably wearing.”  
  
“He’s definitely wearing a brace,” Merida cuts in. “Torn ACLs are gross.”  
  
“Spoken like a true doctor,” Belle chuckles. She’s laying on top of her desk.

Killian stares at Emma, like he’s waiting for her _again_ or _always_ and that makes her mind race. It’s far too late to be running anywhere. Unless it’s at an injured basketball player. “Now or never, love,” he says, and Emma’s mind practically leaps over the finish line.

She licks her lips. “Yeah, ok, let’s hope we don’t get arrested.” Mary Margaret groans. “We probably won’t get arrested M’s,” Emma continues, Killian trying to pull her out of her chair and hand her one of her cameras at the same time and maybe the groan had nothing to do with possible police interactions at all. “Relax, relax, relax,” she grumbles. “Alright, let’s go cross some kind of unspoken journalism line.”

It’s honestly, really, not that bad. It’s honestly, really, kind of, sort of impressive.

The team’s still getting off the bus by the time Emma and Killian skid to a stop in the parking lot and it’s like something snaps or clicks and suddenly he’s several inches taller and far too confident and she’s certain his eyes, somehow, get bluer too.

Like they’re trying to taunt her.

He’s already got a recorder out and his phone out and the SID doesn’t sigh so much in frustration as resignation when he spots the two of them. “Jones,” he mutters. “I should have figured you’d be lurking here.”  
  
“I don’t see it as lurking, I see it as enthusiastically reporting the news.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“A couple of quotes. Five minutes, tops. Maybe one photo.”

The SID arches an eyebrow, throwing a cautious look at Emma and her cameras. “Maybe one photo, huh?”  
  
“Possibly two,” she says. “If we’re feeling pushy.”  
  
The SID hums, and Emma wonders when pride became an audible and physical emotion because she’s certain she can feel it radiating off Killian. She snaps a picture when the one kid wearing a knee brace hobbles off the bus.

“Oh hey, you’re the reporter guy,” Peterson says, still sounding awake and almost optimistic despite whatever happened to his muscles that night.

Killian grins. “Yeah, that’s totally me. You got a few minutes?”  
  
“To talk?”  
  
“If you’ve got time.”  
  
Emma doesn’t really hold her breath, but she does her best not to draw too much attention to herself and it feels like _everything_ is hinging on this moment – and a sport neither one of them care about. Peterson shrugs. “Might as well,” he says. “Probably screwed up your whole story.”  
  
“Nah,” Killian objects. “Just changed the angle a little bit.”

The interview lasts ten minutes. Emma takes almost fifty photos.  
  
And the rest of the weekend isn’t much easier – there are more phone calls to make and quotes to change and angles to alter – but David doesn’t play the breathing exercise video anymore and Merida’s face doesn’t consistently match the color of her hair, so it seems like almost a draw. Emma sleeps on the couch in the corner on Friday night, waking up whenever there are photos to size or food to be eaten and the guy from the twenty-four hour taco restaurant up the block probably thinks they’re all insane.

“We’ve ordered like we’ve never seen the outside world,” Belles says during a mandatory, one in the morning taco break. Mary Margaret added those to the schedule on Saturday morning.

“At this point, I can’t even remember what the outside world sounds like, let alone what any other food except these tacos is,” Merida says.

Emma laughs into her taco shell, letting her head loll back and Killian doesn’t argue when her shoulder blade presses into him. “Lucky for us, these tacos are actually pretty delicious.”  
  
“That’s your insanity talking,” Belle argues. “You’re giving into the taco. You’re letting it win.”  
  
“We all know how crazy this sounds, right?” David asks. He’s met with several hums and a few half-exhausted nods and all of them jump to attention when the door slams open again.

Ruby Lucas is one of Belle’s most dedicated features writers  – because, Emma is positive, she’s also dating Belle, but she’s enjoying this taco way too much to care about relationship definitions, particularly when she can feel Killian’s inhale against her – loud and slightly over the top, but enthusiastic and good at what she does and she’d been more than willing to rewrite her story.

Again, probably because she’s dating Belle.

“You guys ordered tacos?” Ruby asks, and David holds his up like that proves they’re real. “You know there are other places to get food from? Like way better places.”  
  
“Is the story done, Ruby?” Mary Margaret asks.

“Wow, just glossing over your subpar takeout opinions. Ok, fair, fair, I know you guys are stressed. And obviously. C’mon, who do you think I am?”  
  
“Someone with very strong takeout opinions.”  
  
Ruby laughs, dropping next to Belle and grabbing a handful of tortilla chips. “Also fair. You want me to fix anything else?”

They do, in fact, want her to fix several other things, and suddenly Saturday is Sunday morning and they’ve got less than twenty-four hours to finish this.

Emma genuinely does not remember the rest of it.

Her mind is a blank canvas of basketball jerseys and Photoshop files with increasingly insulting names – ”Seriously, Swan, if you don’t stop telling me to fuck off in these files, I’m going to throw your camera out the window.” “Stop changing your layouts, then!” – and if Emma never sees another taco again, it will be too soon.

And it’s somewhere closing in on midnight, her eyes drooping and her soul feels like it’s doing a pretty good job of trying to vacate her body, when Emma collapses on the couch only to find Killian leaning over her with a small stack of papers in his hand.

He rocks back on his feet before he asks her.

He doesn’t actually ask her.

“If you don’t mind,” he says, like that’s not _big_ or _important_ or so goddamn personal it’s got to mean _something_ , and Emma nods quickly. She hits the back of her head on the arm of the couch.

It doesn’t take her long to read the story, eyes scanning letters and graphs and a few well placed sports puns that make her mouth twitch, and she can feel Killian watching her. She’s, like, ninety-five percent positive he’s holding his breath the whole time.

So she reads it twice.

It’s that good.

“Ridiculous,” Emma says, flipping her wrist and for half a moment he looks terrified. She smiles. “Why are you so good at writing? It’s honestly not fair to the rest of us.”

His whole body sags when he exhales, his answering smile strong enough that it could probably send the magazine proof to the publisher on its own, and Emma tries to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. That doesn’t work very well.

It never does.

“Yeah?” Killian asks, but Emma’s already nodding again and it’d be a fitting end to the weekend if she concussed herself on her own disgusting couch.

“Yeah.”  
  
They make deadline with five minutes to spare, Mary Margaret slamming her finger into the mouse with an authority that’s even more impressive than her editor voice. “Take that you stupid basketball team,” she yells, a resounding _hear hear_ that’s mostly just David. “We’ve got to celebrate. Right? Yes. Let’s celebrate.”  
  
“Rabbit Hole?” David asks, glancing around like he’s taking roll call. “Rabbit Hole? Rabbit Hole? Rabbit Hole?”  
  
His eyes fall on Emma, but she can still feel Killian’s stare on the side of her face and it’s been there since she gave him back his story, and she’s shaking her head before she realizes she’s already made her decision.

A great, giant coward.

“Nah,” she mumbles. “I’m pretty dead on my feet. And all those edits gave me some kind of raging headache, so…”  
  
She trails off, sure anymore words will make it almost too obvious she’s lying and she’s still wearing Killian’s sweatshirt and--

“I’ll walk you back, Swan.”  
  
Emma nearly falls over. She hasn’t actually moved. “What?”  
  
“Walk. Slowly probably since I feel like I died several days ago, but I’m sure we’ll get there eventually.”  
  
She opens her mouth, only to close it again because she doesn’t actually want to object, but then Mary Margaret’s pushing on her back and Emma has no choice _but_ to move and Killian doesn’t flinch when she collides with his chest. His arm wraps around her waist.

“Let’s go, love.”

They don’t say anything on the walk back, and it’s too late or too early for the coffee, which Emma refuses to acknowledge as another sign, but then they’re in front of her door and he’s already got her keys in his hand and--”  
  
“Do you want to come in?” she asks, the words flying out of her mouth. Killian’s eyebrows jump. Emma resists the urge to make a basketball joke. “I mean...you don’t have to, I just figured if you’re the walking dead, then--”  
  
“--Yeah, ok.”  
  
“Ok.”  
  
She figures it has something to do with how palpable their exhaustion is, but Emma feels like they’re moving in slow motion and trying to balance on some unseen wire and it’s cautious in a way it’s never been because this feels like _something_ in a way it’s never been and Killian rocks back on his heels when she jumps onto her mattress.

“You look exhausted,” she comments, and those eyebrows are going to be the death of her.

“I’m still not sure that’s a compliment, love.”  
  
“Not a bad look, really.”  
  
He laughs, running a hand through his hair and his fingers linger on the back of his neck when his gaze flashes back up towards her. It’s all blue and determined and it’s always been like that, like she was a puzzle he was desperately trying to understand and she doesn’t actually ask him to get on the bed and fall asleep next to her.

Maybe she should be taking that interviewing class.

He toes out of his shoes before he climbs up next to her.

“Remind me to give you your sweatshirt back later,” Emma mumbles, mostly into his chest because, at some point, in the last five point six seconds, she turned towards him.

“Keep it. Looks better on you anyway.”  
  
They blow off their classes on Monday, Emma’s phone dying in the process, but Mary Margaret and David are sitting in the common room when they emerge, slightly disheveled, but at least feeling like human beings. Emma absolutely notices the look her friends share.

It’s far too knowing.

And she’s still got the sweatshirt and an almost normal sleeping pattern, but she’s still nervous and she picks up twenty copies of the magazine when it comes out a week later.

Things don’t change – partially, she knows, because she doesn’t let them change, but he doesn’t either and that’s enough or almost enough and Emma so distracted by a new set of photos with increasingly insulting file names that she barely notices the office door open or the sound of her own email notification.

“You going to check that?” Ruby asks, rolling back and forth in Belle’s chair. Emma doesn’t answer. She’s almost one-hundred percent certain her body is systematically shutting down.

_Alternative Press._

And an internship offer. With a stipend. And credit. And a foot in the metaphorical door.

She can’t breathe.

“Have you seen Killian?” Emma demands, and it’s the first time she’s ever seen Ruby look remotely intimidated.

“Shouldn't you know that?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I mean...that’s how that kind of thing works, right?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Ruby blinks, one of the chair wheels squeaking when she comes to abrupt halt. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“No, no,” Emma says. “I asked you first. Rules of interviewing or whatever.”  
  
“I promise that’s not how it works.”  
  
“An answer, Ruby!”  
  
“Are you and Jones not dating?”  
  
Emma nearly falls over. She’s not actually standing up. And she can’t keep repeating herself, but her brain does not seem to care because she’s shouting _what_ at Ruby again and the whole thing is as absurd as anything that’s happened all semester.

Except the falling asleep with Killian’s arm around her waist. That was kind of nice. Or the best. Whatever, _Alternative Press_ doesn’t want her for her sentence structure.

“I mean,” Ruby starts slowly. “That’s...everyone thinks that. Belle said Mary Margaret told her it wasn’t true, but it’s kind of obvious you’re both stupid into each other.”  
  
Emma nearly bites her tongue in half. Ruby grimaces. “Both of us?” Emma asks, met with a slightly incredulous nod and the telltale signs of someone trying very hard not to laugh.

She appreciates that.

“Are you not actually getting to make out with that?” Ruby asks. “Because I think you’re doing everything else. If you’re going to be in a relationship, you should at least get to make out.”  
  
“That is...oddly practical.”  
  
“I know, right? I’ve got opinions besides my ones regarding tacos.”  
  
“Everyone thought that?”  
  
“Except Mary Margaret apparently. I think David’s under some secret assumption you two have been getting it on behind his back for years.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groans.

“Do you not want to be getting it on?”  
  
“Please stop using that phrase.”

Ruby gives up on the whole _not laughing thing_ and that’s probably for the best. It can’t be good to contain that kind of emotion. Emma’s not sure what her emotions are doing. Possibly slam dunking. That’s another basketball joke.

“You should probably go mention that to him,” Ruby suggests. “I think he’s kind of waiting for you to catch up. Or, you know, break the news.”  
  
“Ah, God, that’s not even clever.”  
  
“That’s hysterical and you know it. Go. Declare. Shout from the rooftops.”  
  
Emma bites back the incredibly sarcastic retort sitting on the tip of her tongue because, well, she doesn’t really want to contain anything anymore and it probably isn’t healthy and she hasn’t been able to get that look on his face when she asked him inside out of her head. She’d like to do that. Consistently. With some labels.

And she’s wanted to make out with Killian Jones forever, so it’s about time or something.

So, naturally, she nearly runs over him walking into the office.

His arms his way around her almost immediately, leaning back to stare at her and there’s a smile on his face and something that genuinely looks like light in his eyes and, if asked, Emma will totally blame Ruby for what she does next.

“Do you think we’re dating?”

Killian narrows his eyes. “What?”  
  
“Dating, you and me. Each other.”  
  
“I think you’ve covered all possible combinations, Swan.”  
  
“Are you making jokes?”  
  
“Only because I’m not sure what’s going on and I didn’t entirely expect the interrogation.”  
  
“That’s not what this is,” Emma argues, but that’s exactly what this is and she’s the world’s worst interviewer. “It’s, um...a concerned interest. In the status of…”  
  
“Us?”  
  
Emma’s heart explodes. She’s ninety-six percent positive. “Is that the right pronoun?”  
  
“Depends.”  
  
“On?”  
  
“The rest of the interview, I guess.”

Emma nods, teeth digging into her lower lip and she didn’t realize she was balancing on her toes until her calves start to act. It probably has something to do with adrenaline. And the fact that she may sort of, totally, absolutely, be in love with Killian.

For, like, years.

God everyone knew.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” she asks, dimly aware of Ruby’s exasperated groan.

Killian tilts his head. He doesn’t move his hand. “I’m getting whiplash from this conversation, love.”

And, really, that’s what does it. The nickname and it’s hers and theirs and a slew of other pronouns that are decidedly possessive in the same way she is about his sweatshirt.

It’s so goddamn comfortable.

That’s another sign.

“I got the _AP_ internship,” Emma announces. “And I...well, the first thing I thought of was that I couldn’t wait to tell you. That’s...that’s how my thoughts usually go. I want to tell you first and only you first and I’ve wanted that forever and I’ve been stupid and nervous and so worried about messing this up because you’re my best friend, but dating on the newspaper is such a college cliché and--”

She doesn’t finish. She’s too busy making out with Killian Jones. Ruby makes a noise that might be the general sound of triumph or the audible exaltation of Emma’s actual soul because they are even better at this than she expected them to be.

And she expected quite a lot.

She never expected him to kiss her.

Killian tugs her closer, and Emma’s mind drifts to that idea that they _fit very well together_ again, but that only lasts as long as it takes for his tongue to swipe across her lower lip and there’s more kissing and a distinct lack of breathing and she can’t believe they haven’t been doing this for years. She’s more than willing to make up for lost time.

And he doesn’t seem to mind.

They break apart and come back together, a rhythm that’s kind of like finding your touch from behind the arc, or a record-breaking game and probably something about the NIT because the basketball team is still pretty terrible and they’re definitely not going to make the NCAA Tournament.

Emma tries to breathe him in, fingers gripping the front of his jacket like several different lifelines and David nearly runs into Killian. They’re still standing in the doorway.

“Ah, damn, did we miss it?” David asks, and Ruby is cackling. Mary Margaret clicks her tongue.

“Leave them alone. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Although if you guys could stop blocking the only exit, that’d be great because it’s definitely a fire hazard.”  
  
Killian chuckles against Emma’s mouth, sending a rush of feeling straight into her and it lands between her ribs and directly above her heart and her fingers are starting to cramp up.

She doesn’t let go.

Neither does he.

She smiles.

So does he.

“You might be my best friend too,” Killian says.

“Might be?”  
  
“According to sources.”  
  
“God, I hate you.”  
  
He shakes his head, lips ghosting over Emma’s again and she chases after him, eagerly and several other adverbs that basically boil down to something akin to love. “No, you don’t,” Killian argues. “But I’ll take some confirmation one way or another. And maybe a date.”  
  
“Just one?”  
  
“Is it going to be like this all the time now?” David demands. “Because this is honestly almost too much.”

Killian and Emma flip him off in tandem, but they don’t actually look away from each other and that tightrope is back, but it’s not wobbly and it might be made of reinforced steel and, eventually, she’ll tell him she loves him.

Maybe after a few of those dates.

“I’d like to date you for the foreseeable future, Emma,” Killian says, straight to the point with real names and she’s still wearing his stupid sweatshirt. She honestly can’t remember when she wasn’t. That feels like the biggest sign.

“Ok,” Emma whispers. “Good. That’s, yeah, that’s good. Confirmed sources.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” David cries. Mary Margaret swats at his shoulder.

And they spend a few more moments lingering in the doorway, ignoring fire codes and the meeting that should have started five minutes before, but then Belle slams into Killian’s back and they figure it’s not worth the bruises.

“We’ve got time, right?” Emma asks, and she’s not talking about the makeouts.

Killian grins. “All of it, love.”  
  
She tells him she loves him after the first date. She’s tired of waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More prompts for the [The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon), this time with a college newspaper AU that is only kind of sort of based almost entirely on reality and how much I hated that basketball magazine. 
> 
> We're closing in on the end of the prompts, but because the world is incredibly stressful, I'm also taking [KISS PROMPTS](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/178932047980/fictional-kiss-prompts) and always down to flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/).


	28. Playing the Critic

It’s almost a bit like a game.

He groans and grouses and rolls his eyes, exaggerated movements that are, mostly, done in something that’s actually more like a dance of facial expressions with the sole purpose of getting his wife to laugh. It works every single time.

So Killian keeps doing it.

And Emma is none the wiser.

She’s far too busy laughing anyway, the quirk of her lips as familiar now as anything, and he can feel her shoulders shift when she leans back against him, a steady weight on his chest while the microwave spins and lights up and he’s gotten used to all of these things. It’s pleasant in the same way a steady sea is pleasant, calm and normal and he doesn’t jump when the _ding_ dings, but Emma does and that just works another ridiculous expression out of him.

She clicks her tongue, as if she’s actually frustrated, but her lips are still doing _that_ and Killian knows he’s winning the game.

He may be the only one playing. Sometimes he isn’t entirely sure. That’s half the fun of it.

“You’ve got to actually open the the thing, love,” Killian says, making sure to duck his head so the words land just behind Emma’s ear and he grins even wider when the shudder works its way through her entire body.

She rolls her eyes. He’s certain of it. That’s somewhere in the realm of forty-seven points. Someday he’ll probably come up with an actual point system to this entire thing.

“You can’t possibly be trying to tell me you don’t know the name of this,” Emma mutters. Her voice isn’t quite even though and there are goosebumps on her forearm when Killian glances down. He’s going to sprain his face muscles.

That would probably require him to detract points from himself.

He makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, letting his chin rest on the jut of her shoulder and it takes, exactly, three seconds and one incredibly deep breath on the part of his wife to open the goddamn microwave and remove the dessert he only, sort of, pretends to hate.

It’s an acquired taste.

But so was this realm and this life and several months of relative quiet have clearly left his wits in shambles. There have, of course, been crises after the final battle – or, as Henry has taken to calling it the final victory, because “isn’t that what it is?” – but for the most part they’ve been relatively tame and normal and mostly regarding the dwarves. They can handle dwarves. That’s the easiest part of this game – or as Henry would describe it, “the beginner’s level, not even close to the big boss.”

And, at some point, they’ve started doing this; nights on the couch with Emma’s dessert concoctions and a list of movies Henry keeps on the front of the refrigerator. They’ve put a fairly good dent in it so far, but there always seem to be more and Killian has gotten very good at pretending to be confused by references.

He’s fairly certain Henry’s on to him.

It makes Emma laugh. And he’d never quite admit it, but Killian loves few things more than hearing his wife laugh and listening to her explain the nuances of this realm’s entertainment tendencies to him. She uses her hands when she gets excited.

He’s fairly certain his wits are, actually, perfectly fine.

“I said no such thing,” Killian argues, tapping his fingers on Emma’s hip when she twists back to stare at him incredulously. “And you’re standing in front of me, Swan. That’s how this works.”  
  
“And you’re the only one who knows when the malt balls get melted enough,” Henry calls from the living room. It sounds like he’s hanging over the back of the couch.

“The lad’s right. You’re a professional.”  
  
Emma twists her lips, something that almost looks like disbelief flashing across her face, but it’s gone as quickly as it arrives and the couch creaks in protest under the weight of the teenager it’s currently supporting. “He’s going to break that thing,” Emma mumbles. She still hasn’t taken the popcorn out of the microwave.

“I’m more worried about the furniture rising up in mutiny,” Killian counters.

“You want to try that again in English?”  
  
He chuckles, ignoring Henry’s objections because _he_ understood _that_ reference and this is sort of like unlocking some secret side quest in that one game that Killian is almost pretty good at. “The couch,” Killian explains. “Is rather rickety, aye?”   
  
“Should I be insulted by you insulting our furniture? You were there when we picked it out.”   
  
“I’m not insulting the furniture, Swan.”   
  
“Then you better make your point,” she says, finally turning all the way around so she can jab her finger into the center of his chest. They’re going to have make a new bag of popcorn. “Or me and the furniture are going to team up against you and Henry or something.”   
  
“I’m not teaming up with Killian,” Henry yells. “He said the couch was going to mutiny me!”   
  
Killian sighs – not quite put-upon, but getting there and Emma’s lips are doing that thing again. That makes it harder to focus on the task at hand and the movies and whatever game he should probably stop playing because it’s--   
  
“--Wouldn’t that make Henry the captain of the couch?” Emma asks, snapping him out of his thoughts and the cackle that comes from the living room threatens to shake several picture frames off the wall.

Killian blinks. And Emma’s smile is as disarming now, several dozen villains and one final battle or final victory or _whatever_ , as it was in Neverland and on a beanstalk and by Lake Nostos with a sword pointed at his chest instead of the tip of her finger.

The light in the kitchen reflects off her engagement ring.

“Right?” Emma challenges, and Killian nods immediately. He’s forgotten all the rules of this game. Henry’s still laughing.

He genuinely can’t remember what they were talking about. Or what movie they’re supposed to be watching.

“I really wasn’t attempting to offend the furniture,” Killian says, far more breathless than he’d entirely planned on. He blames Emma’s smile. And her finger. The popcorn smells like it’s burning.

She hums, twisting her wrist until the fabric of his shirt moves under the pad of her finger, smile widening and maybe she’s the big boss. That feels more offensive than whatever quip he was making about furniture mutinies.

“Last chance to explain, Captain,” she grins. “Or you’re going to lose your title to the kid and--”  
  
“--There can be more than one captain,” Henry shouts, and they should all just move into one room. It would be more conducive to having a conversation.  

Killian is not entirely certain his legs will still move, however, and he’s absolutely, _entirely_ certain that Henry would not appreciate if he and Emma moved into the living room only to start kissing each other in the living room. The kitchen is much better for that.

“He brings up another good point, love,” Killian says, doing his best to get his conversational bearings. The previously steady sea suddenly feels a bit choppier.

“Yuh huh. I think you’re avoiding this because you realize you’ve backed yourself into a corner with the couch joke and you don’t know the word for microwave.”  
  
Henry laughs again. Loudly. The coach creaks again. Louder.

Killian might be losing this game – something about that health bar in the corner and lost lives and the unexpected side effects of an actual, magical smile.

That’s easily the most absurd thing he’s thought since Emma got home.

“The couch is going to fight back against Henry’s siege,” Killian explains. “Rise up in revolt of being attacked like this and then that one rickety leg is probably going to give out and something involving splinters.”  
  
Emma throws her whole head back when she starts to laugh, the sound working out of her and possibly into Killian’s soul and it’s warm and easy and _calm_ and he’s moved right back to the metaphors about the sea. Something about being guided home.

And leveling up.

“Splinters, huh?” Emma asks. She rests both her hands flat on Killian’s chest when she looks at him again – eyes bright and green and maybe they can postpone movie night for...a few hours. At least.

Killian doesn’t really want to do that though.

Because the teenage kid on the couch – whether it’s rising up in mutiny or not – is just as much a part of _everything_ as the woman in front of him and Killian's stopped waiting to wake up from something he’s fairly certain he dreamed of once.

It just is.

They’ll probably scandalize Henry when they kiss on the couch anyway.

“Aye,” Killian nods. “Incredibly dangerous.”  
  
Emma scoffs, the crash of her forehead against his collarbone another welcome weight and Killian’s arm wraps around her waist when he presses his lips to the crown of her head. “God, I can’t believe you just tried to argue for splinters via mutiny,” she mumbles. His arm tightens. It’s not completely on purpose. There are likely tides involved. “That’s almost more ridiculous than not knowing what the microwave is called.”

“Got you to laugh though, so I’d consider that a rather rousing victory.”  
  
She has to push up on her toes to reach him, leaning back so she can lean forward again and he’s not _really_ keeping a list of all the things he loves about Emma Swan, but that may be another one of Killian’s favorites.

Perhaps he should be keeping a list.

Her lips fit against his with practiced ease, the hint of chocolate from the malt balls she’d absolutely been sneaking while she was throwing them into the bowl almost _too_ obvious, but Killian can still feel her smile against his mouth and his arm tightens again.

Henry sounds like he’s dying.

“I’m going to let the couch take me, if you guys don’t come out here and watch this movie!”  
  
Emma’s mouth shifts again, still smiling and still laughing, and she has to sling an arm around Killian’s neck to keep her balance. “Bad form to give into a mutiny, don’t you think?” she asks, whispered against the edge of Killian’s lips and it’s an exercise in patience and maintaining the current state of her furniture.

He nods again – a direct hit and depleted health bar.

“Go,” Emma says, pushing lightly on his shirt and Killian almost stumbles over his own feet. It is, he rationalizes, because of the flush in her cheeks – that bit of color that always comes after a particularly _good_ kiss and he has to bite the side of his tongue when her teeth dig into her lower lip, like she’s trying to stop herself from following him.

Or pushing him upstairs.

Killian salutes. And Emma’s entire face turns red.

“Of course milady,” he mutters, pressing the tip of his tongue against his own teeth. He’s determined to maintain control of the game. It’s getting more and more enjoyable.

And her breath hitches when he moves his eyebrows.

“Aw, c’mon,” Emma groans, eyes wide when she realizes what she’s just said and whatever noise coming from the living room may actually just be Henry falling on the floor.

“I’m getting splinters out here and probably dying,” he warns.

“What’s that noise then?” Killian asks, eyes flashing towards the kitchen archway when the telltale signs of the Blue Ray menu start playing. He smirks at Emma. She pulls both her lips back into her mouth.

The answering noise might actually be a pillow colliding with the wall.

“If you knock any of those frames off the wall, you can swab the deck for a week and then--”

“--Don’t finish that sentence,” Henry interrupts. “I get it, I get it, I get it.”  
  
He pads into the kitchen, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his ears and the hair that falls across his forehead is far too close to his eyes to be entirely acceptable. Killian bites back that particular observation – it’s a losing battle he doesn’t wish to engage in again.

“Are we doing this?” Henry demands, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans and Emma actually gasps.

Killian did not expect this particular level of the game. It seems unfair that the game is evolving without him, but it is rather jarring to see his own mannerisms reflected on a kid he just threatened with swabbing. He usually only has to threaten that and everything else falls into place. It’s because swabbing the deck of the Jolly is the single worst activity in the history of every single realm.

“Because,” Henry continues, seemingly unaware of what he’s doing, “the box, thing, whatever, said it was actually kind of long and like...if Killian’s going to critique the pirate thing again--”  
  
“--That only happened once,” Killian cuts in sharply.

Emma makes another noise, neither an agreement, but almost a disagreement and Henry’s eyebrows _leap_ up his forehead. “Yuh huh,” he says. “We had to pause the movie so you could go on your monologue or whatever.”   
  
“Soliloquy,” Emma corrects with a smile. “Only villains monologue.”   
  
Killian shakes his head. “It wasn’t either of those things. That Sparrow was a horrendous pirate, a God awful captain and an even worse swordsman. That form? It was--”   
  
“--Terrible,” Emma and Henry finish in unison.

“It was! All on his back foot and trying to lung forward. You lose all your strength that way. And charging directly into the Kraken? That was impractical.”  
  
“He kind of had to die,” Henry points out, reaching into one of the cabinets to pull out another bag of microwave popcorn. “That’s how the black spot worked.”   
  
“That’s not how it actually works,” Killian says.

“Yeah, well, you don’t really look like your cartoon counterpart, so you know...in the grand scheme, maybe we can give Jack Sparrow some creative license.”  
  
“Oh now you’ve done it,” Emma mumbles. She jumps onto the edge of the counter, letting her feet dangle and Killian suddenly realizes she’s not even wearing socks. He’s not sure why it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever seen, but he knows he’s almost looking forward to how cold those same feet will be when they inevitably burrow under his legs on the admittedly rickety couch.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Killian says, glancing at Emma when she whispers the same words at the same exact time.

Henry’s going to do damage to his throat if he keeps making that particular noise.

“It is, Swan,” Killian grumbles. She hums – and he gets the distinct feeling he’s been placated. “There’s a way to go about this and if the films aren’t going to show the accurate way of dealing with Krakens then--”  
  
“--What? You’re going to show them how to hunt a Kraken?”   
  
“Jack Sparrow wasn’t hunting the Kraken,” Henry says. “The other way around. And I don’t think Killian killed that one.”

“I didn’t,” Killian admits, pointedly ignoring Emma’s slightly wide-eyed stare and she knew about that, but it felt like several lifetimes ago and he wasn’t particularly interested in rehashing memories of separations and fights and curses and fights that felt like curses.

Henry’s eyes dart between them, still holding the unopened bag of popcorn as he rocks back on his heels. “Well, you know, Jack Sparrow totally didn’t deserve Elizabeth Swann,” he shrugs. “Will Turner forever or something.”  
  
“Or something,” Killian echoes, and just like that, it’s _good_ again and calm and the waves in this particular metaphor aren’t all that aggressive. They’re comforting. They’re certain that Jack Sparrow would be disarmed almost immediately in any duel.

“Totally unnecessary love triangle,” Emma adds. She twists again, grabbing a half-empty bag of candies and tossing them towards Henry. He catches them with one hand. “Plus,” she continues. “You know, Will was all in on Elizabeth. Stealing ships and fighting zombies and--”  
  
“--Mom, they weren’t zombies,” Henry sighs. “They were undead. That’s, like, explicitly stated.”   
  
“Right, right, because zombies aren’t undead.”   
  
“I believe zombies have to die, though, Swan,” Killian points out. He grins when she glares. “We learned that in, what was that one called?”   
  
“Night of the Living Dead,” Henry answers. “The pirates in Pirates of the Caribbean were very much not zombies. Mom, how did Killian get that and you didn’t?”   
  
“Ok, I did not say I didn’t get it,” Emma grumbles. “Can I get to my point now?”   
  
“We’re never going to watch this other pirate movie.”   
  
“That might be for the best,” Killian says. “It’s got a ridiculous name.”   
  
Henry might actually growl. “Captain Blood is not a ridiculous name. It’s...a classic. Or so the box says.”   
  
“The box certainly says a lot, doesn’t it?”   
  
“Grandpa said it was ok,” Henry shrugs. “And I think Mom said this guy might be a real person in the Land of Untold Stories. It was a book before it was a movie.”   
  
“Wait,” Emma says, and she’s waving her hands. Killian does his best not to smile. It doesn’t entirely work. “Was that me who said that? Or your other mom?”   
  
“Other. I guess she had to talk to someone who knew...the Count of Monte Cristo once?”   
  
“Jeez.”   
  
“So, who knows if this guy is legit, but it’s apparently a good movie and there’s swashbuckling or whatever and it was the only pirate movie on my extensive google search that we hadn’t watched yet. Plus, like, I said, grandpa liked it.”   
  
“I’m not sure we should be taking pirate film advice from an actual royal,” Killian says, and Henry makes a noise that sounds like an agreement.

Emma’s feet are as cold as he expected them to be when she kicks towards his calf. She’s still smiling when Killian meets her gaze – and maybe they should all be worried about the state of their respective face muscles. “Is that also part of the principle?” she asks.

“The very top, Swan. Goes against all the best rules of piracy.”  
  
“Should there be rules to piracy?”   
  
“They’re really more like guidelines anyway,” Henry intones, and Killian understands that reference. He pretends not to – blinking and tilting his head and Emma almost sounds like she’s giggling when she slides off the counter to press a kiss to Killian’s cheek.

“C’mon, fearsome pirate captain,” she says. “Let’s make sure the couch hasn’t fallen apart and we can make the kid work in the scullery.”  
  
Henry mumbles a few choice words under his breath, but Killian counters with _swabbing_ and, well, that’s that. Emma’s feet are already twisted under his legs by the time the popcorn, finally, makes it to the living room and Killian’s positive the music playing on the menu screen of this film will be stuck in his head for the rest of time.

And, really, it’s not the worst movie they’ve watched.

That honor belongs solely to that one film about dreams and spinning tops and Killian had actually paced for several hours in the living room after Henry went to bed, mumbling about _it doesn’t make sense, Swan_ until she’d tugged him back next to her and kissed him silent.

His cartoon counterpart is a close second.

“It’s still an absurd name though,” Killian says, fingers toying with the ends of Emma’s hair and Henry fell asleep somewhere after the pirate captured the ship with his eventual love interest.

Emma tilts her head up, sleep almost clearly lingering in the air around her and it only took a few viewings of these so-called _classics_ to learn she wasn’t particularly interested in the ones that weren’t filmed in color. She claimed it was harder to concentrate.

“You sound like you have several pointed opinions.”

Killian shakes his head, another brush of his lips over her forehead and her eyes flutter shut, shoulders shifting with the force of her inhale. “They’re hardly pointed, love,” he whispers. “A little rounded, at least.”

Her answering laugh is warm against the skin of his neck, her whole body twisted around his with an arm splayed over her stomach. “You going to share with the class?”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t understand that reference.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“There are those words again. You sound like you’re the one with rather pointed opinions, love.”   
  
“And you’re deflecting again,” Emma challenges, somehow pulling her legs closer to both of them and Killian is only momentarily worried about the positioning of her knees in regards to his stomach, but that worry evaporates as soon as she turns her head to kiss directly where her lips land. Directly above his heart.

She does that a lot. He’s only cautiously optimistic she’s double checking it’s there. But figuring that out seems like the ultimate level of this game.

Or something.

Henry is snoring.

“I’m not deflecting,” Killian promises, mostly into Emma’s hair. “My opinions are entirely spherical.”  
  
She makes a less-than-dignified noise into his t-shirt, fingers gripping the fabric like she’s trying to make sure it doesn’t disappear and the couch creaks when they both move to get more comfortable. The heel of Henry’s foot is digging into Killian’s hip. He doesn’t try to move him.

“So share them,” Emma says.

“With the class?”  
  
“Or just me. Unless you seriously didn’t understand that reference.”   
  
“Why would I lie about that?”   
  
It feels like balancing on the edge of a knife or the bow of his ship or possibly on the far too thin blade Captain Blood was using during that film, but that’s one of Killian’s, admittedly, many opinions about Captain Blood’s fighting stance and it’s a wonder the man survived the entire attack on Port Royal and--

“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it,” Emma muses, rolling her eyes when Killian grins. “God, you can’t do that. It distracts me.”  
  
“Why would a student be required to share their opinions, no matter what shape they may take, with their fellow academics?”   
  
“I think you’re doing this on purpose.”   
  
“Doing what, love?”   
  
Emma stares at him – as much as she can while she’s still pretzeled around him and she’s a cuddler, his wife, but that’s classified information and no class is entirely aware of that – the same appraising look she gets right before she’s about to read a citizen of Storybrooke his or her rights.

It’s usually the Vikings.   
  
Killian isn’t sure how he feels about being lumped in with the Vikings.

“Alright,” she says, and it sounds like an acquiesce. That’s another pirate term. Almost. At least a partial reference. Killian bites his tongue again. “So, you know how school works, right?”  
  
“Are you asking me if I was educated, Swan? Should we repeat the Greek lessons from before?”   
  
She huffs, an air of frustration almost obvious around her that probably shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. “No,” Emma grumbles. It sounds a bit half-hearted. Killian’s tongue is bleeding. “Anyway, if you’re done interrupting and deflecting, then that’s basically what it means. Kids here like to...well, interrupt in class, I guess.”   
  
“And that’s punishable by sharing?”   
  
“Ah, it sounds like garbage when you say it like that. It’s not so much a punishment as it is a way of...making sure the kids listen. And don’t flirt in class.”   
  
Killian tilts his head at that, eyes widening without meaning to and the blush is back on Emma’s cheeks. “Did you do a lot of flirting in class, Swan?”   
  
The blush is gone. And Killian feels like he’s been thrown back to the start of the level. He needs to stop playing.

Emma shakes her head, lips pressed together tightly. “There was never really much time,” she whispers. “I was always...the new kid and new kids are weird, but they’ve got to share too. They, uh, they make you stand up and introduce yourself and it was the worst when I was little. All those eyes staring at me and wondering who I was and what I was about. I was never any place long enough that many of them ever found out.”  
  
She ducks her eyes, staring at her fingers and the light still reflecting off her ring and it barely takes any time for the words to start pouring out of Killian’s mouth – a treasure trove of slightly rounded and a few angled opinions and--

“Captain Blood’s blade was entirely impractical,” he announces. Emma laughs. And they’re back on track.

“Oh yeah?”  
  
He nods, fingers ghosting over the curve of her shoulder and down towards the bend of her elbow. “Yeah,” Killian repeats. “He looked like he was going to challenge anyone who’d listen to a fencing match. Not going to inspire many on the crew with a weapon like that.”   
  
“You’d think it’d be easier to…” Emma starts, lips ticking down when she trails off and Killian tries not to smirk, but that’s like trying not to have an opinion on all these pirate films Henry keeps forcing them to watch.

“To?”  
  
“I don’t know. Jab them doesn’t seem like the appropriate term.”   
  
Killian’s laugh seems to fly out of him – loud and decidedly uncontrolled and Henry mumbles in his sleep. “Stop moving, lad,” Killian chastises, but it’s no good and the heel digs further into his side. Emma is very clearly trying not to fall off the couch. “Jab is an almost appropriate term. Maybe a little pedestrian, but--”   
  
“--I’m sorry, pedestrian?” Emma balks. Killian shrugs.

“Aye, pedestrian. It’s far easier to cover up your mistakes with a weapon like that.”  
  
“How so?”   
  
“Look who’s interrupting now.”   
  
Emma’s jaw snaps shut, eyes as green and _determined_ as they’ve been all night and that _whatever_ they were balancing on before is just as precarious, but it’s also kind of fun and movie night may be Killian’s favorite night of the week.

“A blade like that, while it looks impressive with its sweeping and whooshing through the air--” Emma’s eyes widen at _whooshing_ and she has to put her hand over her mouth to stop whatever sound is undoubtedly lingering on the tip of her tongue. Killian narrows his eyes. “Whooshing,” he repeats. “You could hear the sound clear as day in the film, Swan.”   
  
“Those were effects.”   
  
“I can guarantee they were not.”   
  
“Oh yeah, were you there?”   
  
“No,” Killian admits. “But I’ve used a blade like that and there’s a definite whoosh involved.”   
  
Emma’s shoulders drop, lips parting with an audible _pop_ and that’s an unexpected challenge. Her expression shifts, less incredulous and more...impressed, but that feels a bit like a selfish want on Killian’s part and he nearly falls back on top of Henry when she surges forward and catches his lips with hers.

It’s quick – has to be with the sleeping kid on the other side of the couch who, it seems, is determined to inflict permanent damage to Killian’s right kidney with his foot before the night is over – but there’s something on the edge of it that leaves him reeling and he wishes his mind would stop drifting to explanation via wave metaphor.

“Is that a Navy thing?” Emma asks, and it shouldn’t surprise him anymore. She’s impossibly good at reading him. And knowing him. And being.

They should leave Henry asleep on the couch.

He’s impossible to move now.

Emma calls it _teenage sleeping patterns_ , and Killian can’t come up with a better term for it.

He nods slowly, smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. Emma’s hair is everywhere when she sits up, a quick jerk of limbs that involve her hand pressed into Killian’s stomach for leverage and he’s going to be bruised and battered by the time he gets upstairs.

Saying it’s worth it seems a little melodramatic, but he can’t come up with a better term for that either.

“Aye,” he breathes, not able to get his voice any louder over the feeling of _everything_ coursing through his veins. That may honestly be Henry’s foot. “They, um...well, there are duels. In classes and--”   
  
“--Wait, wait, they make you duel? Each other? Isn’t that like...Alexander Hamilton?”   
  
“As far as I can tell those were pistols, love. It’s entirely different.”   
  
“Right.”   
  
“It is,” Killian says. His fingers seem to have minds of their own, still moving across Emma’s skin like he’s trying to document it for posterity. It seems like a fair exchange to whatever Emma’s hand is doing to the hair at the nape of his neck. “There isn’t any actual death involved here, however. That’d put quite a dent in the naval ranks, you see.”   
  
“Naturally.”   
  
“It’s a training exercise,” he explains. “Lighter blades so you don’t exhaust yourself and are able to fine tune your skills.”   
  
“Maybe that’s what Captain Blood was doing.”   
  
“That would be acceptable at the start of his career. He was a doctor when he was kidnapped. It’s understandable his fighting skills would be subpar.”   
  
Emma chuckles, eyes still bright with something that looks far too much like amusement to be entirely comforting. “But?”   
  
“But,” Killian says. “It’s an inefficient form of fighting once you’ve got some skill.”   
  
“And what exactly are you fighting with, Captain?”   
  
Killian arches an eyebrow, appreciating the slight hitch in Emma’s breath as soon as he does. “Should I be upset that you don’t know what kind of sword I’m using, love?”   
  
She laughs. And really that was the goal – is always the goal on these nights and in this game and possibly forever or even after – but the innuendo was almost abrasive and Killian feels as if he’s given up something to get to this marker.

Perhaps his dignity.

“Oh that wasn’t even clever,” Emma laughs. “Usually you’re much better about this.”  
  
Killian blinks. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Emma smile like that – triumphantly, and then some. He feels like he’s been pushed into those metaphorical waters.

Or mutinied upon.

He’ll accept. Gladly.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks, and Emma’s continued laughter threatens to wake up Henry. It does. It takes less than five full seconds and several grumbled curses, some of which Killian knows are his doing entirely, and he mouths _swabbing_ at Henry as soon as the kid stands up.

He receives an eye roll for his paternal instincts.

“You guys aren’t nearly as good at this as you both think you are,” Henry announces. His thumb is wrapped around his belt loop again.

Killian can’t stop breathing through his mouth. Emma’s gasp sounds unnaturally loud.

“Wait,” she says, shaking her head, like she’s also just waking up. “What are you talking about?”  
  
Henry does not look impressed. “You’re both playing each other and it’s as ridiculous as it sounds, but it’s also kind of nice because you both like when the other one explains something that’s...I don’t know...yours or whatever?”   
  
“Ours,” Killian repeats, and Henry nods as if he’s back in the Navy and being instructed in the ways of appropriate dueling.

“Yeah, you know what I mean. Mom explains something modern to you and you explain dueling in the Royal Navy and--”  
  
“--How did you hear that?”   
  
“You guys are so loud, it’s ridiculous.”   
  
Killian lets out a burst of air his lungs probably could have used, but Henry looks far too smug and they are incredibly loud. “Fair,” he mutters, and Henry rolls his eyes again. “Alright, so what you’re saying is your mother and I are both--”   
  
“--Trying to get the other one to explain things because you’re stupid into each other and you both like when you explain things that you know and it’s kind of dumb, but it’s also kind of nice. So I’m going to go upstairs now and fall asleep again and I’d really love it if you didn’t make out on this couch that we all have to sit on too much.”   
  
“Henry,” Emma cries, but it’s another good point.

“I thought we decided the couch was rickety. Or mutiny’ing. Is that a word?”  
  
“We can make an exception here if it’s not,” Killian answers. “Although your rather obtuse opinions did just earn you some of that aforementioned swabbing this weekend.”   
  
Henry opens his mouth to object, but Emma sits up straighter and Killian widens his eyes and this particular game, not a game at all, but life and them and _family_ is at its best when its played as a team.

“Obtuse opinions was kind of funny,” Henry mumbles.

“Not going to get you out of the swabbing.”

“Damn.”  
  
“You’re not helping your cause, kid,” Emma advises. “And you look like you’re about to fall asleep standing up now, so why don’t you head upstairs and we’ll avoid anymore incidents with the couch.”

Henry mutters an agreement – Killian hopes it’s an agreement – trudging up the stairs with a clomp and a grunt and then there’s a shut door and, relative, silence. Killian can feel Emma’s eyes on him, darting back and forth between the side of his head and her twisted up hands and her nerves seem to hang in the air until they’re almost palpable.

“That’s absurd you know,” Killian says, another string of words he doesn’t entirely intend on. Emma’s head snaps towards him, brows in her hairline and lips still parted and--”You’ve got nothing to be worried about, love.”  
  
“Who says I’m worried?”   
  
“Every single muscle in your face.”   
  
“Ah, well, that’s really stupid.”

“You’re as articulate as the lad.”  
  
She nods, quick and jerky and that’s as much warning as Killian gets before another kiss and he’d taken even less warning. “Sheriff'ing is way harder than being a teenager,” Emma mumbles. “Or swabbing decks.”   
  
“I’d dispute that second one.”   
  
“Please don’t dispute anything while I’m trying to make out with you.”   
  
“Noted.”

Killian doesn’t say anything for what feels like the rest of the night, all tongue and lips and Emma’s continued assault on the back of his hair. They’ve fallen off the knife, but they’re treading water and there’s likely a sun cresting the horizon somewhere.

And it would have been perfectly acceptable if they did stay on that couch until the sun _actually_ rose, but Killian is not an upstart in the Navy anymore and Emma groans when her leg twists the wrong way, leaning back only to groan again when something in her lower back pops.

“Shit, that can’t be good, can it?” she asks.

“I’m unfortunately not a medical professional, Swan.”  
  
She smiles – easy and certain, any trace of lingering nerves or embarrassment regarding their unspoken game as soon as her thumb brushes over the stubble on his jaw. “Cutlass, right?”

“Top marks.”  
  
Emma swats at his chest, but she’s in a precarious position balanced on top of his thighs and Killian has no idea when that happened. He catches her around the wrist anyway, left arm wrapping around her wait to keep her exactly where she is and--

“It’s about time I kiss you first, don’t you think?” he mutters, mouth finding hers before she can even consider laughing in response. She absolutely would.

“Ok, I’m going to say something,” Emma announces as soon as they break apart again, her forehead resting on his. “And it won’t be nearly as sweeping as you usually are, but I am tired and seriously those Vikings are the worst and, you know what...whatever, I...I like when you explain pirate things and have pirate opinions and I kind of know you aren’t nearly as dumb as you’ve been pretending to be, so I figured it was a two-way street and--”

She has to take a deep breath. Killian’s tongue will never recover.

“And,” Emma repeats. “It was kind of nice because I knew you were interested and if you’re going to make sweeping comments about my face muscles, then your face does this whole thing when I start talking and I...can you feel when my magic does that thing?”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “Your magic does a thing when I look at you?”   
  
“I mean, not every time, but like a solid ninety-six percent of the time and especially when you’re staring at me while I explain modern conveniences you absolutely understand. It’s like it’s aware of what you’re feeling or something.”   
  
“Several decidedly sweeping and even more romantic opinions.”   
  
“Yeah, I picked up on that, actually.”   
  
“Good,” Killian says, another quick brush of lips and Emma’s hair somehow brushes over his shoulder. “And, in case the class was still listening, I’m constantly interested in everything you have to say.”   
  
The blush returns, slow and then sudden and Killian drags his thumb over Emma’s lower lip when it’s clear she wants to bite it. “Henry’s right,” she murmurs. “It’s as ridiculous as it is nice.”   
  
“Almost seems like flirting.”   
  
“Almost.”   
  
“You’re very good at explaining things, love.”   
  
“Yeah, well, you’re a way better pirate than Captain Blood and Jack Sparrow combined. And a much better swordsmen.”   
  
“You flatter me,” Killian says, but there’s a stutter to his heartbeat and he wonders if Emma’s magic knows about that too.

“Don’t act like you weren’t fishing for that particular compliment.”  
  
“I’ve never been fishing in my life.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“When would there have been time?”   
  
“Between mutinies?” Emma quips, a glint in her eyes and her smirk is more effective than his has ever been. “Also did Captain Blood mutiny? I never really figured that out.”   
  
“Were you not watching the film, Swan?”   
  
“That’s not an answer. And you get this little pinch between your eyebrows when you develop a new piratical opinion. I was very busy trying to figure out when you were upset about whatever was happening.”   
  
“I’m not sure piratical is a word.”   
  
“I’m pretty positive it is. I’ll ask my mom when we go to dinner on Sunday. I’m sure you’ll be quick to point out to my dad how bad this movie was.”   
  
“I never said that,” Killian counters. “I questioned Captain Blood’s use of sword, but I refuse to accept film suggestions from your father anymore. And perhaps a subject change.”   
  
“See, angry about the piratical stuff.”   
  
Killian sighs, but it’s more acceptance and even more romance and he stands up with Emma still clinging to every inch of him. She yelps, eyes widening to an almost comical size as her arms tighten around him and her feet scramble to find the floor and it isn’t easy to hold onto her when he’s laughing, but Killian is nothing if not determined.

And stubborn.

But then again, so is Emma.

They are, after all, a very well balanced team.

“No mutiny,” Killian says, walking towards the stairs and that will prove a bit challenging as well. “Blood and his men seized that vessel during the attack on Port Royal. How he managed to take the ship with that sword, though--”  
  
He’s cut off by Emma’s entire body moving against him and she’s backing up and her fingers are wrapped up in his and Killian can only hope they don’t wake Henry up when they walk past his door.

And it’s hours later and magic still lingering in the air from the silencing spell Emma cast and her feet are, somehow, as freezing as ever – even under several mountains of blankets and twisted in between Killian’s calves.

He’s just on the cusp of falling asleep, eyes fluttering and Emma’s hair dangerously close to his mouth, when he feels her shift. The mattress creaks in protest. She’s smiling again.   
  
Killian hopes she’s never actually stopped.

Maybe they’ll move on to superheroes next.

“I’m pretty interested in everything you have to say too,” she says, and Killian feels his jaw drop slightly. “Just so we’re...on the same page or whatever and you’re not tempted to mutiny me or whatever.”  
  
“I’ve never been once tempted to mutiny you, love.”   
  
“Does that make me the captain in this scenario?”   
  
Killian laughs, nodding until the pillow twists under his cheek. “Decidedly and willingly, Swan. Although I hope this doesn’t change the rules of our game.”   
  
“Was it a game?”   
  
“I kept thinking of it that way.”   
  
“Huh. That’s kind of--”   
  
“--Ridiculous.”   
  
“Romantic,” Emma corrects. “And, nah. It’s been fun, right? The explaining and the talking and the absolutely, definitely flirting.”   
  
“Decidedly.”   
  
“Maybe we should work on your vocabulary.”   
  
Killian nods again, pushing off the _absurdly_ noisy mattress until he’s half above Emma and most of his weight is resting on his right forearm and it might be the most comfortable he’s been all night. “We’ll get to that later,” he promises, and he’s certain they will. They’ve got time for it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ever continuing saga of Laura writing canon continues to be absolute absurd. This was still part of [The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon). 
> 
> As always, you guys are real nice and I can't tell you how much I appreciate you reading. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down where I'm also taking [KISS PROMPTS](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/178932047980/fictional-kiss-prompts) because I'm real stressed out.


	29. Kiss Her Once [For Me]

“If you’re not currently putting out an official statement on this office’s opinion on the questionable working situation of the North Pole, then you need to put the phone down.”  
  
Emma does not, in fact, put the phone down.

And she absolutely ignores the footsteps moving towards her, shoes that are far too shiny shifting into her line of vision as her fingers fly over the screen. At some point she is going to figure out where Killian Jones gets his shoes shined.

It can’t be one of those places in Penn.

They look way too nice for that.

She’s totally going to ask. Someday. At some point. Maybe after she finishes her forty-second text message to Will.

Or, like, fiftieth. That’s a rounder number.

He sighs when he crouches in front of her, the sound morphing into something that almost becomes a groan when what may very well be his right knee cracks. Emma’s lips twitch.

She absolutely did not mean for that to happen.

But that seems to be par for the course when it comes to Killian Jones and his far too shiny shoes because Killian Jones always seems to know exactly what to say to push her buttons and make her smile and almost laugh after a particularly trying press conference.

And the last few months have been nothing short of hectic – a campaign and winning, which wasn’t entirely surprising because Regina was very good at public speaking and being charming and she really did mean every single thing she said, a rarity in modern politics. But all of those things meant that Regina Mills was no longer just a New York State Assemblywoman from District 74. She was now a U.S. Representative with promises for federal funding to fix the MTA and a rather vocal opinion on the travel ban that led to several sleepless nights for Emma when her phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

And, most importantly, for the entire goddamn office, it meant moving to Washington D.C.

Soon.

A few weeks soon.

Right after the holidays soon.

The kind of soon that makes Emma positive she’s the world’s worst mother for forcing her kid to pack up all his belongings and schlep several thousand miles away from his friends to a brand-new school in the middle of the year. She’s far too experienced being the new kid to even imagine any of this is going to go well.

Her phone buzzes in her hand. It draws a not-so-quiet laugh out of Killian and he can’t possibly be comfortable like that, but he doesn’t appear to be making any effort to move.

“I’m going to take a stab in the dark and guess that’s not actually Santa Claus,” Killian says, finally getting Emma to lift her head and she kind of regrets that. He’s doing that thing with his face. The smirk thing and the twist of one eyebrow and it regularly gets politicians to do his bidding and little old ladies on the Upper East Side to promise they’ll _support Ms. Mills one-hundred percent_ and Emma assumes her lurking in the hallway of Regina’s questionably large brownstone is probably hurting his schedule.

He’s very big on schedules. She assumes being chief of staff will do that to a person.

“You’re a genius,” Emma drawls, eyes flitting back to the phone when it makes another noise and Will is just sending her slightly passive aggressive emojis now. “Oh my God, that one doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
“What doesn’t?”   
  
“I was not talking to you.”   
  
“Yes, well, I’m the only other person in this hallway, Swan, so if you weren’t talking to me then I think we’ve got some other problems on our hands.”   
  
“Don’t your calves hurt?”   
  
His other eyebrow moves. It’s genuinely the dumbest thing she’s ever seen. “Are you worried about my calves?”   
  
Emma ignores that too. Her phone sounds like it’s going to explode. And she’s not really worried about Killian’s calves, but he’d helped get her this job what feels like several million years ago, promising Regina he _had a good feeling_ about a single mom with minimal political experience, but plenty of journalism experience and Emma really did believe in what they were doing.

That hasn’t happened very often for her.

“Shut up,” Emma grumbles, but that only serves to draw another laugh out of Killian and he doesn’t move very gracefully when he tries to sit down. She bites her lip. And sends sixteen middle finger emojis back to Will.

“You shut up.”  
  
“That’s incredibly mature.”   
  
“Swan, you are sitting on the floor of someone else’s very expensive home with one of your feet halfway out of your shoe.”   
  
She narrows her eyes at his very good point – and, really, Emma has no idea why she wore these shoes. Well, no, that’s a lie. She wore the shoes because she’s never worn the shoes and they’re kind of sparkly and decidedly festive and she can’t seem to wrap her head around everything that is simultaneously ending and beginning.

They’re going to take Washington by storm.

Or something less lame. A better headline that that.

A headline that inspires confidence and change and a different word than that because that’s someone else’s catchphrase and Killian is the only person who came out into the hallway of someone else’s very expensive home to see what was wrong.

“They’re already making my feet hurt,” Emma admits, and for as powerful and political as the smirk is, his real, genuine smile is, at least, ten thousand times better.

Killian hums, the crinkles around his eyes unfairly endearing. “You know you never answered my question, actually.”  
  
“I was too busy wondering how many limbs you were going to break when you sat down.”   
  
“Ah, that’s rude. Did you get champagne?”   
  
“Was that the question?”   
  
“Swan,” he sighs, but there’s no sense of frustration to it. It’s easy and simple, which is ironic all things considered because their relationship is really anything but and Henry wanted Killian to come over instead of Will. That’s probably the reason for all the emojis.

“I have not gotten any champagne yet, actually. Mostly because I’ve been trying to remind Scarlet of all the rules at home and--”  
  
“--Wait, wait, Will Scarlet is in your apartment right now?”   
  
Emma nods and _The Wall Street Journal_ could probably do some very impressive investigative work trying to figure out whatever happens to her pulse as soon as she hears the change in Killian’s voice. “Yeah, yeah, he said he didn’t want to spend any more time with any of us and promised he was more than happy to watch Henry so, and I’m quoting here, you can actually get off your couch and be mildly entertaining, Emma.”   
  
“Scathing.”   
  
“I think he’s been holding it in the whole campaign. It’s not easy dealing with everyone he had to deal with.”   
  
“Yeah, God forbid a campaign manager work more than forty hours a week when he’s helping the greater good.”   
  
“You should get that on a pin.”   
  
Killian chuckles, a hand in his hair and eyes staring straight at Emma. “So are you going to do it, then?”   
  
“Do what?”   
  
“Be mildly entertaining.”   
  
“Wow,” Emma breathes, dragging out the word until it sounds like she’s almost genuinely offended. She doesn’t answer Will’s last text. “That seems to suggest you think I’m not, Jones. Not only am I entertaining. I am genuinely fun when the occasion calls for it.”   
  
Killian tilts his head, disbelief practically rolling off him. “That so?”   
  
“I was fun on election night!”   
  
“You had half a glass of champagne, scheduled sixteen pressers, told several different people what to put on social media, which is not your job by the way, and then ignored Mary Margaret’s attempts to set you up with that guy from the Sierra Club.”   
  
Emma groans at the memory – head falling back against the wall she’s considering forwarding her mail to at this point. These shoes were a mistake. God, she hopes that’s not a theme for the rest of the night.

And, really, Mary Margaret’s heart is always in the right place. She knows everyone, after all, head of Regina’s scheduling and appearances and she’s got an actual rolodex still because _I don’t trust it if I can’t write it_ , a motto both Emma and Ruby regularly mock.

But, sometimes, Mary Margaret is also a little pushy and a little too certain and if Emma only occasionally believes, then Mary Margaret wakes up with belief pouring out of her and the guarantee that everyone is destined for someone else.  

It’s nice.

It’s also the single most annoying thing in the world.

“That guy was just as uncomfortable as I was,” Emma promises. Killian doesn’t move his head. “He was! And, you know, I can’t just--”  
  
She cuts herself off, nearly biting her tongue in half in the process. It’s more uncomfortable than the blisters she’s certain are already forming on her feet.

Killian blinks.

“You can’t what?”  
  
“C’mon it’s not--”   
  
“--No, no, you were going to say something. And we both know that people don’t say things without thinking about them first.”   
  
“Ok, that is fundamentally untrue. Also, this is not a presser. I’m not obligated to give you any kind of answer.”   
  
“Fake news,” he mumbles, kicking lightly at her ankle. It’s a weird balancing act that does something else ridiculous to Emma’s pulse and they’re going to fix Washington from the ground up, she knows it.

Emma needs to find some boxes.

“That’s not even clever.”  
  
“I beg to differ. You did that thing with your lips.”   
  
She jerks her head up so quickly she’s briefly worried that she’s sustained some kind of concussion and that would probably make packing very difficult. Emma’s breath catches, far too loud in a hallway that is still questionably deserted and she can just make out, what sounds like, _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ soundtrack playing in the background. Killian, for his part, doesn’t say anything else, but his eyes do widen slightly and Emma hopes he doesn’t do permanent damage to his scalp from gripping his hair so hard.

“Is that code?” she asks, voice far too low to be acceptable in a workplace environment. She is getting incredibly distracted by whatever Killian’s tongue is doing in his mouth, pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s considering his options and the most politically correct answer.

And, really, in the last few years there have been moments.

Almosts.

Could have beens.

More of those pesky maybes Emma is always so fond of.

He’d look at her a little too long or she’d brush her hand over his back when she walked by him, but nothing more than that. Because they’re doing something bigger than this and she doesn’t have time for more and--all those reasons she’s given Mary Margaret and Ruby and even, sometimes, Elsa six-hundred thousand times.

Killian shakes his head slowly, hand falling back to his side and Emma doesn’t think she imagines the way his fingers flex slightly. Like he’s trying to stop himself from moving. “No code,” he says. “Just--”

They’re usually much better at having conversations.

It’s definitely _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ soundtrack and someone laughing and Emma’s positive Will is going to give Henry way too much chocolate.

“Why’d you come out here?” Emma asks, and she hopes the question doesn’t sound as aggressive as she’s worried it is. Killian’s eyebrows fly into her hairline. “That wasn’t supposed to be some kind of accusation.”  
  
“I feel like I just asked about something you’d already said no comment on sixty-two times.”   
  
“Nah, only like forty-six.”   
  
“Ah, well, that’s totally fine then.”

She laughs, smile feeling more natural. “I”m serious though. You didn’t...I was just driving Scarlet insane and learning about emojis I didn’t realize even existed.”  
  
“I think that’s the extent of his creativity, honestly.”   
  
“Look who’s scathing now. I’m serious. There’s no need to double check on me or anything. I promise, I’ll stand up and ignore what a bad decision these shoes were and--”   
  
“--I don’t think the shoes were a bad decision.”   
  
Maybe Emma did concuss herself before. Dizziness is probably a symptom of that. She licks her lips to stop herself from doing anything decidedly unprofessional, the sincerity in those words ringing in between her ears.

There’s probably a joke about _the record_ to be made. She doesn’t say it.

“Thanks,” she says instead, and Killian’s answering smile is something decidedly unfair and entirely festive. Emma has no idea how, but she assumes something that bright should probably hang on a Christmas tree. “But you’re doing a real shit job of avoiding my question.”  
  
The grin gets bigger.

“I have an idea.”  
  
“About?”   
  
“Something fun.”   
  
“This is not the explanation I was hoping for,” Emma sighs. Killian winks, shifting slightly to grab something out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

It’s a plastic bag, full of...something that looks like it was only recently alive and Emma refuses to be held accountable for whatever expression she makes in response. If only because it gets Killian to laugh again – that one, specific laugh, that she, maybe, sort of hordes for herself because it sounds purer than anything else she’s ever heard or something equally ridiculous. She’s only ever heard it when they’re by themselves.

“Stop staring at it like that,” Killian mutters, that same lack of frustration in his voice. He sounds like he’s trying not to keep laughing.

“I’m not!”  
  
“Swan, you are, love. This is not what you’re thinking it is.”   
  
“Ok, ok, ok, what am I thinking then o ye Christmas soothsayer?”   
  
“That’s a good title.”   
  
“Killian!”   
  
His eyes flash when she all but shouts his own name at him – eyes wide again and distractingly blue, but they’ve got nothing on whatever the tip of his tongue does when it presses against the corner of his mouth. Emma swallows.

She wonders how many boxes they’ll actually need to move.

And if Regina’s going to pay for the trucks. That only seems fair.

“This is real, unfiltered mistletoe,” Killian explains, leaning into Emma’s space. It’s suddenly very warm in someone else’s hallway. And someone in the other room is shouting something about _alcohol_ and _bingo_.

“Were those the words you were looking for in that order?”  
  
He shrugs. “It sounded way more dramatic that way.”   
  
“And that’s what you were going for then?”   
  
“Correction, that is what we are going for.”   
  
“I don’t understand,” Emma admits, eyes flitting back towards her phone screen when it lets out a string of buzzes that probably affects the brownstone’s foundation. “I think Henry and Scarlet are building a gingerbread house.”   
  
“You’re never going to be able to get that kid off that sugar high.”   
  
Emma groans. “Maybe I’ll just murder Scarlet instead.”   
  
“That’s the spirit, love. Although we did talk about design a couple days ago.”   
  
“Wait, what?” Killian nods again, lips quirking up. Emma needs to stop looking at his lips. “Are we still talking about Henry? When did you see my kid?”   
  
“I just told you, a couple days ago. You were stuck in that presser about the end of the year stuff and getting ready for Washington and--”   
  
“--And you were hanging out with my kid?”   
  
Her voice does that aggressive thing again.

Emma winces at the tone, but Killian doesn’t look entirely surprised. His lips shift again, another head tilt that makes several strands of hair fall artfully across his forehead and she’s always been far too overprotective. But she and Henry have been a two-person unit for as long as Henry’s been a person and while most of the office has found a way into the lives, no one has settled into the center of everything as easily as Killian has.

Henry was really upset he wasn’t coming over that night.

“He had a lot of festive thoughts to share,” Killian reasons. “And, like, I said. He was waiting and you were running late. It wasn’t...it wasn’t a big deal, Swan.”  
  
Emma bites her lip when he realizes – not necessarily an apology for discussing gingerbread engineering with her kid, but rather because he wants to discuss gingerbread engineering with her kid.

She needs several dozen glasses of champagne.

“No, I know it’s not.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma nods. “Why are you carrying around bags of mistletoe?”   
  
“Ok, it’s one bag of mistletoe and I already told you. I have an idea.”   
  
“Usually that requires explaining the idea, you know.”   
  
He makes a face – half an eye roll and an almost smirk, although those both may because she’s trying to get her shoe back on. They will, eventually, have to get back to the party.

“How recently has Mary Margaret tried to set you up?” Killian asks, the last question Emma expects. “It’s got to be recently right?”  
  
“Jeez. Were your thoughts on gingerbread houses that pointed?”   
  
“No, no, although there’s got to be an appropriate frosting to building ratio. And we did stage a rather heated debate, using parliamentary procedure no less, about whether or not _Die Hard_ is a Christmas movie.”   
  
Emma has no idea what noise she makes. It can’t possibly human.

It seems to bubble out of her, a sound she’s positive she’s never heard in her life because it may honestly be a giggle and the tips of Killian’s ears go red.

She pushes her hair back behind her ears, desperate for something to do with her hands that isn’t yanking on his tie. “Parliamentary procedure, huh?”  
  
“He mentioned something about Model UN at the new school.”   
  
Emma’s eyes widen, a size that can’t be healthy. “He did?”   
  
“Did he not?”   
  
“You tell me.”   
  
Killian nods, resting his forearms on his bent knees. “I think he’s been looking stuff up, Swan. He’s very good at being prepared. That’s all you.”   
  
“Please, if I was prepared for any of this, I’d already have half my stuff packed and know my kid was looking up clubs he could join. Model UN, really?”   
  
“Apparently they’ve got a partnership with George Washington. It’s very prestigious. Lots of awards. College scholarships.”   
  
“Jeez.”   
  
“You’ve got a proactive thirteen-year-old, love. That’s not a bad thing.”   
  
“Tell that to my very bruised mom ego,” Emma mumbles. She lets her head fall back again, another threat of concussion when her eyes flutter closed, and Emma is incredibly proud that she doesn’t gasp when Killian’s fingers tap against the side of her thigh.

“I can teach you some of the terms.”  
  
Her eyes snap back open. “Did you know those off the top of your head?”   
  
“You, love, are in the presence of the best delegate at Cornell University’s Model UN several more years ago than I am willing to admit.”   
  
Emma makes that noise again. “No way.”   
  
“Oh yes. It was very impressive. I know all about caucuses and drafting resolutions and dealing with crisis committees. Trust me, between the three of us, we’ll save the entire world as soon as we get to D.C.”   
  
He can’t possibly mean it the way it sounds – like a promise and a guarantee and a string of words that Emma wants to believe in as well, but can’t possibly afford to be wrong about. She only just realizes he’s never moved his fingers.

“Two questions,” Emma says, partially so she can get him to do the eyebrow thing again. He does. “What did you decide on regarding _Die Hard_ and are you ever going to explain why you’re smuggling real mistletoe into Regina’s house during a party only some of us wanted?”   
  
“Did you want the party?”   
  
“Oh my God, if you were a journalist, I’d steal your credential.”   
  
Killian chuckles, fingers tightening slightly. “No you wouldn’t. You’re far too upstanding for that.”   
  
“Generous.”   
  
“Honest,” he amends. “And Henry was adamant that a movie being set at Christmas does not automatically make it a Christmas movie, but I’m very persuasive and very good at debate and--”   
  
“--Is that the same thing as Model UN?”   
  
“No, can I finish now?” Emma sticks her tongue out. It makes him laugh again. The right one. “Anyway, we decided that there were some exceptions to the rule because, strictly speaking, _Meet Me in St. Louis_ is also not a Christmas movie, but it had _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ , so--”

“--That song was in a movie?”  
  
“Swan! Also, how did you not know that?”

She shrugs, leaning forward to tug the bag out his hand. There’s a ton of mistletoe in there. “Go ahead and lord another fact over me, Jones. And then, seriously, explain your plan because I would actually like to get some champagne if Regina bought the good stuff.”  
  
“She’ll be offended to find out you think she didn’t buy the best stuff.”   
  
“I’m going to murder you.”   
  
Killian shakes his head, far too much confidence and Emma is loathe to admit it’s also pretty goddamn attractive. “You are not. And your kid would be disappointed. Also, you’re kind of on the right track.”   
  
“The track never seems to be ending.”   
  
He clicks his tongue – and they’re going to rip the bag of mistletoe if they keep yanking it out of each other’s grip. “Patience is a virtue, Swan.”   
  
“Separation of church and state.”   
  
“That was clever.”   
  
“Oh my God, make your goddamn point or I’m going to get ridiculously drunk without you.”

“Well, that would ruin everything,” Killian says, doing something positively sinful with his tongue. “The plan, my dear, is to give those people in the other room a taste of their own medicine. Did you know that Mary Margaret and David have been casting longing glances at each other for years on end?”  
  
“A person could be blind and still know that.”   
  
“Exactly. So we are going to force them out of the woodwork, as it were. We’ve got mistletoe. We’ve got festive music and a whole list of interpersonal relationships that are less against the rules at Christmas time.”   
  
“Holiday,” Emma corrects on instinct, and Killian nods seriously. “How many interpersonal relationships are we talking about here?”   
  
“By my last count at least three. Possibly four if we're lucky.”   
  
“Three?”   
  
He nods again, a flash of amusement in his gaze that has Emma considering this ludicrous plan. If only because it does, actually, sound kind of fun. She can be fun. With Killian Jones. And his shiny shoes.

She wonders if it’d be weird if she spent the rest of the party barefoot.

“We’ll start with the easiest,” Killian explains. “Mary Margaret and David are so in love I’m surprised we haven’t had to fill out paperwork or gotten word of the elopement already--”

“--Please, Mary Margaret would never elope.”  
  
“Fair. But we’ll start with them. Get the kissing and then move up the ladder while getting progressively more and more drunk.”   
  
“Is the alcohol a requirement, then?”   
  
Killian makes a noise in the back of his throat – not quite an agreement, but something that makes Emma’s pulse thud in her veins and her heart feel as if it’s going to explode out of her chest. He offers her his hand when he stands up.

She takes it.

“A perk,” Killian grins. “When’s the last time you got drunk, Swan? Not a few sips or just buzzed. But really, truly drunk?”  
  
“I have no idea.”   
  
“Exactly. Plus we need an excuse.”   
  
She laughs, head falling against his chest out of instinct and several other words she refuses to acknowledge. She doesn’t, after all, have an alcohol excuse yet.

“Yeah, ok. Let’s cause some romantic ruckus.”  
  
“Good name,” he says, not letting go of her hand when he directs her back down the hallway.

She leaves her shoes on the floor.

* * *

Regina’s living room – or sitting room? Emma isn’t sure of the technical term and there are so many rooms in this brownstone, it is honestly ridiculous – is some kind of winter wonderland, fairy lights hanging from the ceiling and something that’s less tacky than garland and something else that may be actual holly draped over the doorway.

“You think you can hang something up there, love?” Killian asks softly, knocking his shoulder against Emma’s in a way that’s far too familiar to be entirely far when that room is already so warm. No one’s notices them. They’re probably all drunk already.

Emma is only kind of frustrated that they’re so behind schedule.

“Where?”

He jerks his chin towards the holly and Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat. “How am I supposed to reach that? And then what do we do after that?”  
  
“Are you suggesting I don’t have a plan?”   
  
“If you do, I haven’t heard it yet.”   
  
Killian flashes her a look – not quite exasperation, but maybe more _endeared_ and Emma barely hears his _don’t yell_ when he wraps an arm around her waist, an inexplicable display of upper body strength that makes want to shout and punch him and then, maybe, kiss him.

Except not that last one. Definitely not the last one.

“Oh my God,” Emma hisses, kicking her toes into Killian’s calf. “What the hell is wrong with you?”  
  
“Why are you kicking me? And keep your voice down, someone is going to look over here.”   
  
“I’m going to murder you.”   
  
“It’s entirely possible,” Killian admits, and Emma makes another noise when he hitches her further up his side. “Do you have steel toes? You must be some kind of mutant.”   
  
“I genuinely hate you. Was this the plan?”

“It would be if you’d get the goddamn mistletoe up there.”

Emma gapes at him – and it is a wholly unprofessional Christmas miracle that no one has noticed what they’re trying to accomplish in the doorway. It’s definitely because they’re all getting ridiculously and completely drunk on the other side of the room.

It’s been a very long year.

“And where exactly did you put the mistletoe?” Emma seethes. She shifts slightly, which may be the worst mistake she’s made in her entire life because it only ends with Killian’s arm tightening and his eyes widening and there is far too much of her touching nearly all of him.

“In my jacket.”  
  
Emma assumes it is entirely unprofessional and possibly a little unethical to be slightly pleased with the wrecked sound of his voice, but she’s also several inches in the air and she’s willing to blame the lack of oxygen at that altitude.

Or whatever.

Maybe it’s just his hand.

“And you didn’t think to take it out before you started exercising your feats of strength?”  
  
Killian shrugs. It moves Emma again and she’s only slightly hopeful that her heart stays in her chest cavity when she notices his teeth find his lower lip. “I was trying to be stealthy about this. Although, I’ll be honest, love, this is not helping our covert operation.”   
  
“If I tell you I hate you again, are you going to make some kind of journalism quip?”   
  
“Yes, absolutely. Get the mistletoe out of my pocket, Swan.”

Emma sticks her tongue out again – complete with another vaguely immature noise and Killian has to press his head into her shoulder to stop from laughing too loud. She can’t believe no one has noticed them.

And it takes some twisting, an impossible shift of her arms and a possibly dislocated shoulder, but she does, eventually, manage to get the mistletoe hanging off the holly.

“That was so much more complicated than it had to be,” Emma grumbles, back on her feet and she’s not surprised to see the smile on Killian’s face. “If you laugh, I’m seriously going to kick you again.”  
  
“You are violent when causing a romantic ruckus, aren’t you?”   
  
“Where’s my alcohol?”   
  
He does something ridiculous with his eyebrows, offering his hand again and the whole thing is equal parts ridiculous and unprofessional and, absolutely, a little unethical. Emma tries to keep her breathing even. “Your wish is my command, Swan.”   
  
And, really, Regina has pulled out all the metaphorical stops on this one. There’s more alcohol on the other side of the room than the most overpriced Midtown bar and enough no one loves alcohol more than politicians when they’re off the clock.  

Killian doesn’t ask Emma what she wants, just hand her a glass and--”whisky, neat.”  
  
“That’s right,” she says slowly, disbelief clinging to every single letter because she can’t imagine how he knew that and it shouldn’t feel like that big of a deal.

“I’m incredibly perceptive. And you’re a bit of a creature of habit.”

“Is that a compliment?”  
  
He hums over the top of his own glass, a hint of something in his gaze that Emma isn’t sure she’s entirely prepared for. “Absolutely.”   
  
She’s just about to say something – something she can blame on the whisky and the general temperature of that room, but then there’s a shout and a general _oooooh_ and Mary Margaret and David are standing directly under the mistletoe.

Their mouths fall open in tandem, eyes widening to the size of several different saucers and Ruby sounds like she’s going to fall off the chair she’s clearly claimed as hers.

“Aw, c’mon,” David mumbles, but there’s a hint of color to his cheeks and Emma’s pretty positive it’s not just because they were outside.

“Oh my God,” she says. Killian makes another noise of confusion, although the sound turns into more of a groan when she starts swatting at his side.

He catches her around the wrist, leveling her with a stare that slinks down her spine. “The violence, Swan. It’s got to--”  
  
“--Mary Margaret and David are totally dating.”   
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
“Did you know that?”   
  
“I mean obviously not. What...how did you come to that conclusion?”

Emma is glad she’s not wearing her heels anymore. It would hurt to bob on the balls of her feet like she is, excitement and a latent romanticism that’s easier to remember during the holidays. “Look at ‘em,” she says, rushing over the words. Killian’s fingers haven’t moved yet. “There is snow in Mary Margaret’s hair.”

Killian leans forward – tugging Emma’s back against his chest in the process and it’s inadvertent, it has to be and definitely is and she probably won’t think about that on loop when she does, finally, get boxes to pack up her life and move to Washington D.C. – hooking his chin over her shoulder and she swears she can feel his laugh work its way into her, settling into the pit of her stomach and the rather gaping spaces around her heart.

Mary Margaret’s got her hand on one of her cheeks now, more calls from the peanut gallery about _rules_ and _tradition_ and _we knew it_. Emma barely hears any of it over the ringing in her ears, the sound of her own pulse an impossibly loud metronome.

“Were you two just outside?” Killian calls, growling slightly when Emma elbows him in the stomach. “Your limbs, love.”

David glares at them. “If I say I was double checking security stuff are any of you going to believe me?”  
  
“No,” Ruby and Elsa say at the same time.

Regina shakes her head deftly. “If you were worried about security you wouldn’t have brought Mary Margaret with you. There’s no way you’d put her in any actual danger.”  
  
“Ah, that’s gross,” Ruby mumbles.

“Or it’s incredibly romantic,” David argues. That only draws several more shouts though and Mary Margaret’s other hand flies to her other cheek. David hisses in a breath of air. “Ok, that’s not what I meant at all and--”  
  
“--You’re under the mistletoe, chief of security and bastion of safety,” Emma says. She’s going to blame the whisky. And Killian’s hand, flat against the curve of her hip. And maybe because she can feel him breathing against her.

“Are you drunk?”  
  
“Not yet.”   
  
“But working on it,” Killian mumbles, loud enough that only Emma can hear.

“Well, this is an antiquated tradition,” David says. “And we don’t have to do anything, just to satisfy you lot and--”  
  
He doesn’t finish. Mary Margaret makes sure of that. It may, honestly, be the last thing any of them expects. She turns on David, a flash of determination in her eyes that Emma is only too well acquainted with because Mary Margaret gets what Mary Margaret wants and the sound that ricochets off the walls of Regina’s _whatever_ room as soon as the two of them start kissing under the mistletoe is decidedly joyful and still just a little unethical.

Mary Margaret has to push up on her toes to reach David, but that only last a second and then he’s got an arm around her waist and her toes are skimming the floor and one of her flats falls off.

“She made a better shoe choice than me,” Emma mutters, working another laugh out of Killian.

“Ah, yours are sparklier. Where are they, incidentally?”  
  
“In the hallway still.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“Are they still making out?”   
  
Killian nods, cheek brushing up against Emma’s hair. “I think we’ve started something that can’t be stopped, Swan.”   
  
“With great power comes great responsibility.”   
  
“Oh, that was funny.”   
  
“See,” Emma says, spinning on the spot and that’s only kind of mistake. She has to throw her hands up to keep her balance, palms flat against Killian’s chest. His lips twitch. “I can be fun.”   
  
Killian doesn’t answer immediately – and part of her hates that, hates whatever look he’s directing her way, slightly appraising and slightly cautious with a hint of that same _something_ Emma cannot cope with at any point, but especially with more whisky in her system than she’s had in months and Mary Margaret and David still kissing a few feet away.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Killian whispers, one side of his mouth tugging up.

“Told you.”  
  
Emma only moves because the peanut gallery is shouting again. “What do you mean the whole time?” Ruby screeches, standing up and ignoring Regina’s tongue click when she knocks the chair over.

Mary Margaret shifts her weight on her feet, scrunching her nose. “Exactly what those words mean in that very specific order. It’s been--well, kind of a secret and--”

“--And we all know you all had your suspicions,” David adds. “So don’t act like you’re surprised. Whoever put the mistletoe up just kind of forced it out into the open.”  
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Emma breathes, tilting her head up to find Killian’s thrown back with the force of his laugh. “Maybe we’re actually romance soothsayers.”   
  
“That’d be a very impressive talent,” he says.

“I can’t think of any other explanation.”

“There absolutely isn’t one. Should we be drinking more?”  
  
“I can’t think of any other explanation.”

“I’m not sure that made sense, love, but I think Lucas is shouting something about shots, so…”

Shots, it turned out, meant shots bingo, a game that Emma was half certain Ruby was making up as she went along without many rules except the goal to get its players as drunk as possible.

It’s working.

“B-12,” Ruby calls, brandishing the ball in front of her like it’s several pieces of gold stolen from the Federal Reserve. “Anyone closing in on bingo yet?”  
  
“I think we’re all going to die before we get to bingo,” Mulan mumbles. “Should we be watering down these drinks?”

Regina narrows her eyes. “If you people water down the alcohol I bought for you, I’m going to fire all of you.”  
  
“Or we’ll just all have to get our stomachs pumped,” Killian mutters. It’s mostly to Emma, again, or still, but she’s lost track of just about everything at this point, including proper sentence structure and anything that isn’t how incredibly solid his arm feels next to her. “I think it’s time for phase two, Swan.”   
  
She’s only a little frustrated by how difficult it is to turn her head.

“What was phase one?”  
  
“Mary Margaret and David.”   
  
“And there are three phases?”   
  
“Yeah, although three may be admittedly kind of difficult.”   
  
“And we’re in phase two right now?”

“We’re about to be. How deceptive do you think you can be?”

Emma lifts her hands in the air, another challenge she doesn’t entirely appreciate because she kind of feels like she’s moving through soup or unfreezing after a considerable amount of time in the same, awkward position and the metaphor is stupid. “That’s not doing a lot to inspire confidence in the plan, Swan,” Killian adds.

“Oh, you’re going to tell me the plan this time, huh?”  
  
“I would if you’d stop interrupting me.”   
  
She’s got to come up with some other response than sticking her tongue out. It also keeps getting Killian to smile at her though, so, maybe in the grand scheme...   
  
“G-52,” Ruby says, although it comes out more like a slur and Emma swears Killian’s smile could rival every single light on the tree in Rockefeller Center.

Several different people groan when they do another shot.

They’re definitely going to die before they even get a chance to try and fix America’s piece of garbage political system.

“This is going to require some talent on your part, Swan, you understand?” Killian asks as Emma takes another sip of her drink. Elsa makes a strangled noise at that – she’s breaking the BINGO rules, apparently. “That’s not helping either.”

“Maybe you should be the one doing this then,” Emma says. “You’re clearly lacking in some faith here, Jones.”  
  
“That’s not true.”   
  
It’s one of those moments again – far too sincere and far too meaningful and Emma shivers when she downs the rest of her drink. She’s only one spot away from BINGO. That’s probably a sign or something.

“I’m going to drop mistletoe in Ruby’s hair,” Emma announces. “Screw your plan.”  
  
She reaches forward, tugging on the lapel of Killian’s jacket. He moves willingly, or, drunkenly, hair dangerously close to his brows when his head drops slightly and his hand lands on Emma’s hip like there’s a magnet involved.

Emma’s fingers don't shake when she pulls the plastic bag out of his pocket, although it is getting more and more difficult to breathe the longer she lingers in Killian’s space. And it doesn’t take long, standing up and making it seem like she’s refiling her drink and the whole room is already forty-seven sheets to whatever metaphor she’s running with at this point, so Emma doesn’t really need Killian’s wide eyed gaze and half a smile to help direct her towards Ruby.

It’s kind of nice anyway though.

He winks when the piece of mistletoe gets caught in a strand of Ruby’s hair.

“And now we wait,” Emma whispers, dropping back next to him. He tugs her drink out of her hand when she moves, ignoring her protests and flashing her a smile instead.

“We’re a team, Swan. That means we share the spoils of our reward.”  
  
“I’m sure those words make sense to someone who’s had far less whisky than I have.”   
  
He hums, letting his head rest against the side of hers and--

“Ru, you’ve got something in your hair,” Mulan says, reaching out towards the mistletoe. Emma holds her breath. “Oh. It’s, uh...it’s mistletoe. How did that get there?”

Ruby makes a noise that might be disbelief.   
  
“Is she actually blushing right now?” Emma whispers, glancing at Killian. He looks a little stunned.

“I feel like I’m seeing some kind of romance unicorn.”  
  
“That was funny.”   
  
“A two-way street, love.”

Emma is going to say something. She is. She’s going to say something wonderful and poetic and it’ll change everything, but she keeps getting interrupted by drunk coworkers and her own thoughts and--  
  
“Rules are rules,” David yells, Mary Margaret’s arm slung around his shoulders. She’s sitting on his legs. “Pucker up!”   
  
“Regina, can we fire him for that?” Ruby asks sharply. It gets her another head shake.

“I think I’d get sued. And like he said, rules are rules.”  
  
“Pucker up,” Mary Margaret yells, repeating it until there’s a chorus echoing in the room and Emma gapes at Killian.

“Maybe we haven’t done such a great thing after all, Swan.”

“They’re all insane.”  
  
“Ah, shut up all of you,” Ruby hisses, but any sense of anger disappears as soon as her eyes move back to Mulan and their kiss isn’t quite as charged as Mary Margaret and David’s. That’s another sentence Emma didn’t entirely expect.

It’s softer and a little careful and Ruby’s cheeks are still tinged pink when she pulls away.

Mulan may actually giggle.

“Or maybe we’re actually miracle workers,” Emma mumbles. She grabs Killian’s glass out of his hand and downs the rest of whatever he was drinking.

“It’s a very fine line to walk, I think.”  
  
“Good thing I took the heels off, huh?”   
  
Killian chuckles, pulling Emma closer to his side. “You’re going to have to put them back on eventually, you know.”   
  
“That is incredibly stupid.”   
  
“Eloquent as always. You ready for phase three?”   
  
“Are you?” Emma challenges, wobbling slightly when she stands up. Even without the heels.

Killian grins.

And he wasn’t lying – the last one is the most difficult, Emma threatening to _kill you_ when he explains who they’re going to mistletoe next. “I’m not doing it,” Emma says, back in the hallway and people are starting to leave. It’s got to be close to midnight, her phone vibrating in her hand because this was not the time she and Will agreed on. “I’m not.”   
  
“Swan, we agreed--”   
  
“--And you never once said that we were going to try and get Regina to kiss someone.”   
  
“Robin,” Killian corrects. “We’re trying to get Regina to kiss Robin. Because she wants to. And possibly has in the past. I’m, like, ninety-six percent positive.”   
  
“That is not one-hundred percent.”   
  
“Nothing in life is guaranteed, love.”   
  
“God, I hate that you’re right.”   
  
“About which part?”   
  
“The cliché and the maybe kissing already. They are always around each other, aren’t they?”   
  
Killian nods seriously, twisting the pieces of mistletoe between his thumb and finger. “At some point, you’re going to have to realize that I’m almost always right. And this is the end of the plan. You don’t want to come up short of the finish line, do you?”   
  
“That’s another cliché.”   
  
“Yes, it is. This one is going to be simple. I promise. They’re--”   
  
He spins when the footsteps move towards them, Regina jerking back slightly when she notices Emma and Killian standing there. “Why are you two lurking in my doorway?” she asks.

“We’re not, Your Highness,” Killian says, the only one who would dare say such a thing. Robin does his best to hide his laugh behind his hand. It does not work. “I’m just trying to convince Swan that she does, in fact, have to put her shoes back on to go back outside.”  
  
Emma gasps – glaring at him and kicking lightly at his left ankle. Killian’s eyebrows are ridiculous.

“Does this mean you’re leaving?” Robin asks, a note of impatience in his voice. Emma stops kicking Killian. She’s far too busy being stunned. “Also, what’s in your hand?”  
  
“Ah, I was hoping you’d ask me that,” Killian answers. He twists one arm around Emma’s shoulders, taking a step towards the clearly stunned maybe-pair in front of them and dangling the few pieces of mistletoe over Robin’s head. “Rules are rules, guys.”   
  
The force of Regina’s glare could cut diamonds.

Or steel.

Or adamantium.

“Where did you get that?” she hisses. “Oh my God was it you two all night? That’s--”

“--The rules, Your Highness,” Killian interrupts. “Or so you were quick to point out to your subordinates.”  
  
“I do not think of you as my subordinates.”   
  
“Subjects?”   
  
“I’m not sure that’s how democracy works, exactly,” Emma mumbles, and she can feel Killian’s smile when he lets his his cheek rest against the side of her hair.

“She’s got a point,” Robin says.

Regina rolls her eyes. “She’s got alcohol poisoning.”  
  
“Whose fault is that, really?” Emma asks. “Stop buying the good stuff.”   
  
“It’s almost like I like all you horrible people.”   
  
“Almost.”   
  
“We going to get this show on the road here?” Killian cuts in, waving his hand and shaking the mistletoe.

Regina stares at him for a moment and Emma’s only slightly worried they’ve overstepped some invisible line and she might not be entirely prepared to move to Washington D.C. but she’s even less prepared to lose her job and--

“This is heavy-handed,” Regina mutters, but she doesn’t say anything else before turning on her senior advisor and kissing him with the kind of enthusiasm that makes Emma certain this is not the first time they’ve done it.

“Huh,” Killian says. He holds his hand out so Emma can slide her feet back into her shoes and there probably aren’t actual sparks involved, but it feels like that kind of night. Robin and Regina are still making out.

Emma is only kind of, sort of, _completely_ jealous.

She hopes there were sparks.

“I thought that was supposed to be super difficult,” Emma accuses. They’re already moving out the door, neither Robin nor Regina acknowledging their departure and there’s a few inches of snow on the sidewalk outside.

“A Christmas miracle, I’m sure.”

“I think your perception of miracles has been a little skewed by the amount of rum you’ve had.”  
  
“How did you know I was drinking rum?”   
  
Emma shrugs, feet already aching despite the few steps they’ve taken. “Incredibly perceptive.”   
  
“That so?”

She wishes he’d stop doing that – half a sentence and half a meaning that may be all meaning and it’s difficult to think when there are snowflakes landing on the tip of his nose. Emma reaches up slowly, fingers barely brushing over his skin and the stubble on the curve of his jaw and she hadn’t even noticed him trying to hail a cab until the cab is honking at them and the driver is leaning out the window shouting a string of words that are neither Christmas-related nor miraculous.

Killian’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into Emma’s palm. “We’re taking this cab home.”

She doesn’t argue. Or say much of anything on the drive back towards her apartment, not sure what to think when he refers to _her_ apartment as _home_.

The cab driver says something else when they skid to a stop in front of Emma’s building, but she barely hears it when Killian’s pulling her back against his side and reaching into her pocket where her keys always are. He knows where she keeps her keys.

That usually doesn’t mess with her head like it is now.

She’s usually not as drunk as she is now.

She takes her shoes off as soon as the door closes behind them.

“They really are very good shoes, love,” Killian says, leaning against the nearest wall with a smile on his face and that same piece of hair falling artfully across his forehead.

“Not worth my pain, honestly. And you didn’t have to bring me home.”  
  
“Wouldn’t be very gallant otherwise.”   
  
“You’re being gallant now?”   
  
He nods, moving slowly towards her and eventually one of them will stop trying to touch the other. Probably. “Definitely.”

They make their way up the stairs slowly, more keys turning in locks and gazes that linger just a hint too long and Will is sitting on Emma’s couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table when they walk inside.

“Nice of you to show up,” he drawls. “Hey, Jones. Wasn’t expecting you.”  
  
“How’d gingerbread house construction go?”   
  
“Way better than whatever you and the kid planned. Looks like you guys had some fun.”   
  
Killian scoffs, a bit of laughter there too and Emma doesn’t mean to lean into him. She doesn’t. Really. But he’s so goddamn warm and even more solid and she really did have a good time tonight. Emma may be a little disappointed she didn’t get kissed under the mistletoe, but that’s neither here nor there and it’s fine and--   
  
“There’s lipstick on your collar,” Killian says, nodding towards Will and Emma nearly trips over herself in an effort to stand up.

“What the hell, Scarlet?” Emma snaps. “Were you making out with people while Henry was awake? In front of Henry?”  
  
Will rolls his whole head. “Who do you think I am?”   
  
“Someone with lipstick on your collar. What time did Henry go to sleep?”   
  
“A normal time for a thirteen-year-old hopped up on an acceptable amount of holiday-themed sugar. And it wasn’t really people, it was--”   
  
“--Oh my God, Belle left early,” Killian finishes, an arm around Emma’s waist when she all but sags against him.

“Is everyone in this office making out with everyone else?”  
  
“You tell me, Em,” Will says. He pushes off the couch, barely pausing to squeeze her shoulder and grab his coat off the hook on the wall. “You better get some boxes in here. You’ve got a ton of stuff to pack.”   
  
“Is that your not so subtle offer to help me pack?”   
  
“Absolutely not. Make sure you drink some water before you fall asleep.”   
  
Emma makes some kind of noise that only serves to hurt the back of her throat, Will’s laughter ringing in the air around them even after he leaves and the force of the alcohol in her bloodstream seems to hit her suddenly. Like several different freight trains.

“Ah, that’s why I don’t drink much anymore,” Emma mutters, burying her face into Killian’s chest. She definitely imagines the lips that brush over her hair.

For sure.

“You need to get some sleep, love,” Killian says, a hand moving up and down her back. “And maybe some water.”  
  
“Is that you agreeing with Scarlet?”   
  
“Not at all. That’s my knowledge of preemptively dealing with hangovers.”   
  
“Gallant. Again.”   
  
“Something like that for sure.”

“Alright,” Emma nods. She leans back against her better judgment, vision swimming slightly and heart thundering in her chest. “I’m uh--I’m going to sleep. And this was--”  
  
“--I always have fun doing vaguely deceptive things with you, Swan.”   
  
Her laugh is shaky at best and swooning at worst, another nod that makes the Earth feel as if it shifts on its axis. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. If I walk into my room now will you lock the door?”   
  
“Yeah, of course.”

Emma smiles, tugging lightly on his jacket again and she doesn’t entirely remember the next few hours. There’s definitely sleeping and some water, but then there’s light streaming in her windows and voices coming from the other side of the apartment and she does not expect the plural in that sentence.

She moves slowly, tugging a sweatshirt on that isn’t hers and maybe matches up with one of the voices in, possibly, her kitchen. It does. She’s not entirely surprised. She totally knew.

“Hey Mom,” Henry says, sitting on the edge of the counter with a bowl perched on his legs and a whisk in his hand.

Emma wasn’t even aware they owned a whisk.

“Hey kid,” she breathes. Killian’s standing at the stove, tie gone and jacket gone and his feet are bare on the linoleum floor. It’s ridiculously endearing. “What time did you get up?”  
  
“Awhile ago. Did you see the gingerbread house Will and I made? Killian said he’d help me build some more sugar trees later today.”   
  
“Did he?”   
  
Henry nods enthusiastically, almost dropping the bowl in the process. It gets both Emma and Killian to move at the same time, which is either the single worst thing that could happen to her or the single best.

She’s really not surprised he stayed.

Something something gallant. And maybe kind of romantic.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Henry continues. “We’re going to build a whole forest and practice some more Model UN stuff and--”  
  
“--Henry did you wake Killian up?”   
  
Her kid whisks whatever is in the bowl harder. It’s the single most absurd thing Emma has ever seen. And it makes her heart feel as if it’s grown forty-seven sizes.

“I was on the couch, Swan,” Killian reasons. He’s totally making bacon. He must have gone to the bodega and bought bacon.

Emma may die in her own kitchen. From romantic hangovers.

“Yuh huh,” she says slowly. “If you walk away from that pan are you going to burn my whole apartment down?” Killian shakes his head. “Alright, then…”  
  
“Yeah, ok.”   
  
They shuffle back towards the front door, Killian’s jacket hanging in the same spot Will’s was. He’s got his hands in his pockets when she turns on him, eyes cast towards the bare feet that may honestly be taunting her at this point and--

“I couldn’t bring myself to leave,” he says before Emma can start the interview.

She really hates that she gasps.

Killian seems to take that as a positive though, stepping into her space until his toes threaten to brush against hers. His smile is tempered, as if he’s worried about Emma running out of her own apartment and, well, that’s fair, but she’s also definitely hungover and she really wants bacon and--  
  
“Why?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Why couldn’t you leave?” Emma asks. “I mean...I know I wasn’t exactly a gracious host. I probably should have made sure you could get a car--”   
  
“--I’m perfectly capable of getting a car, Swan.”   
  
“Then?”   
  
He shrugs, reaching back to tug on the hair at the nape of his neck. Emma bites her lip. “I didn’t...” he starts, “I didn’t want to. And I...well, you can take care of yourself, but I wanted to make sure. I don’t--if something happened.”   
  
“Like what? I choked on my own vomit?”   
  
“That’s far less romantic than I was going for.”   
  
Emma gasps again. It’s honestly the worst. “Oh. Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian says, another promise that feels more important than anything else she’s heard in the last twenty-four hours or an entire political campaign. “I really like...being around you, Swan,” he adds, softer when his hand falls to her waist. “Full stop and in general and not always with the alcohol, but the alcohol was also fun and--well, I know you're worried about everything changing, love, but nothing is going to change and you’re still going to have, at least me and that’s not always the best, but--”   
  
“--Shut up,” Emma cuts in, and she doesn’t try to grab the mistletoe out of his jacket.

It feels kind of pointless anyway. And she's fairly positive this is the phase four. 

As far as first kisses go, it’s definitely not the best in the history of the world. Emma’s mouth feels a bit like it’s filled with cotton and her head feels a bit like it’s going to snap in half at any given moment, but Killian’s hand moves to the small of her back and he makes this one, particular noise when her tongue brushes over his lower lip that may be the single greatest sound she’s ever heard.

She’d like to bottle it. Or something less weird.

They linger in each other’s space for a moment – lips and teeth and tongue and Emma smiles against his mouth when her fingers find their way into Killian’s hair. She presses up on her toes to reach him easier, letting him pull her flush against him.

That makes her groan.

And he laughs against her.

“I didn’t really want you to leave,” Emma admits, mumbling the words into his jaw and that time she’s certain of the kiss pressed to her hair.

“That’s not something you have to worry about.”  
  
“I guess we should fill out some paperwork or something.”   
  
“I think I’m going to be drowning in paperwork for the foreseeable future.”   
  
“‘Tis the season or whatever.”   
  
“Eloquent,” Killian says again, another quick kiss that ends as soon as Henry starts shouting _the bacon is burning_.

“C’mon. There’s nothing worse than burnt bacon.”  
  
They do, eventually, get Henry to stop whisking what Emma learns is waffle batter and the bacon isn’t burned, but just crispy enough and Killian rolls his eyes when she laughs at the phrase _unmoderated caucus_. But then there’s more smiles and frosting and a gingerbread house that looks much better with some landscaping around it.

Will sends several dozen emojis back to Emma after she texts him the updated photo.

And he doesn’t ever help her pack. Killian does, labeling boxes and putting away kitchen utensils Emma didn’t know she owned, pausing every few minutes to press her against the nearest wall and kiss her senseless.

Without the mistletoe.

That doesn’t change once they get to Washington D.C., smiling against each other as soon as the clock strikes midnight in a new apartment with half-emptied boxes and the certainty that they’re going to change the goddamn world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is almost entirely for @distant-rose who is not my secret-anything, but deserves some festive cheer and even more festive plotting. As always, thanks for clicking and reading and being generally fantastic, internet. It's real nice. 
> 
> If you're looking for more festive feelz, the last chapter of [The Gift Receipt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16881132/chapters/39646302) posts tomorrow and my actual CS Secret Santa will start posting over the weekend. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	30. Pulling Your Punches

The hospital lights are giving her a headache.

They’re bright and abrasive and everything smells like disinfectant, which, honestly Emma figures is probably a good sign regarding the cleanliness of this hospital, but she’s far too worried about everything else to be worried about that.

She’s not even sure if she’s _supposed_ to be worried about that.

This was not part of the plan.

At all.

There was no plan.

At all.

“We should be back there,” David hisses, not for the first time and it’s an absolutely horrible attempt at keeping his voice down.

Emma licks her lips, ignoring Mary Margaret’s furtive glances. Mary Margaret keeps glancing at her. Emma’s tongue is going to dry out.

That’s the single worst thing she’s ever thought.

“We can’t get back there yet,” Ariel says reasonably, slumped in one of the waiting room chairs with her legs stretched out in front of her. She mutters a rather pointed curse under her breath when Will nearly trips over her feet. “Well, watch where you’re going then.”

“I didn’t actually say anything,” Will points out. “And the Detective is right. We should—“

“—We can’t. You know that. David knows that. They’re doing tests or making sure he’s not concussed or whatever.”

“He’s definitely concussed,” David mumbles, and Emma’s stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch. Mary Margaret is still staring at her.

Ariel, somehow, slumps even further down. It ends with her kicking Will in the the ankle, a growl on his lips and he’s a blur of movement and Jones-branded clothing, ducking down to grab her legs and swing them over his when he sits down. “Don’t move,” he commands, but the words ring a little hollow when it’s clear how worried he is.

It’s definitely a concussion. At best. Or worst. Emma has lost her grip on the English language.

Ariel sticks her tongue out. “Do you think we should call someone?”

“Like who?”

“Everyone he knows is here,” David chuckles, drifting closer to Mary Margaret like there are magnets involved. Or love. Definitely love. “It’s—well, if we were he's emergency contact, we would have gotten called already. Right?”

Will shrugs. “He’s been in there for awhile.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Emma hasn’t really been paying attention, far too preoccupied with the less-than-encouraging placement of her stomach in regards to the rest of her internal organs and how much she absolutely hates the lighting in that hospital, wondering if her worry is too big or too meaningful, and she’s so caught up in her own thoughts that she almost doesn’t notice her phone ringing in her pocket.

It doesn’t matter. Her friends do. Loudly.

“Em,” Mary Margaret says, nodding towards the buzz lingering around Emma’s right thigh. “You’re…your phone is ringing.”

She must nod. She’s sure she nods. She hopes she nods. She does, at least, tug her phone out of her pocket, arm heavy when she pulls the stupid, still-ringing piece of technology to her ear and Emma’s voice scratches its way out of her throat.

It’s more abrasive than the hospital lighting.

“Hello?”

Her voice shakes. It’s the worst.

“Emma Swan?”

“Yuh huh.”

“This is Belle French from NYC Health and Hospitals in Coney Island. I’m calling because Killian Jones listed you as his emergency contact. Unfortunately I have to tell you that Mr. Jones has been admitted here after sustaining some injuries during his fight and—“

“—Is he concussed?” Emma interrupts, well aware of the four sets of matching and equally wide eyes that stare at her. Ariel curses when Will grips her legs too tightly.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that over the phone, but if you’d be able to—“

“—I’m here.” Emma should stop interrupting Belle French. It’s rude. “Um, sorry. I'm just—well, I’m standing in the waiting room. Currently.”

“Oh,” Belle says, a note of genuine surprise there and Emma can’t blame her. It’s reflected on each of her friend’s faces as well. “Well, that’s…efficient.”

“Yeah, that’s me for sure. Does this mean I can come back there?”

“Can we go back there?” Will asks sharply, Emma waving him off.

Belle makes a noise on the other end of the phone. “Give us a few more moments. The doctor is still with Mr. Jones, but I’m sure he’ll want to see you soon.”

“The doctor?”

“Mr. Jones. He’s been asking for you.”

Emma’s stomach flies into her throat. “Ok,” she says, quieter than she wants and more emotional than she probably should be, but the punch had landed and she’d definitely gasped and—“Ok,” she repeats. “I’ll be here.”

“Good.”

The phone feels impossibly heavy in Emma’s hand, weighing her down and somehow making her head ache even more. They’re all still looking at her. Mary Margaret’s shoes squeak when she takes a step forward.

It was raining out.

Figures.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret says, stretching her name out into an impossibly long string of syllables. “What’s going on?”

* * *

“Ariel, listen, I don’t care how much you think we’ll get along, I don’t want—“

“—I have no idea if you’re actually going to get along. I'm cautiously optimistic and I just think it could be interesting.”

Emma glares, eyes thin enough that it’s difficult to make out the self-satisfied smile on Ariel’s face. “I’m not interested in being your science experiment either.”

“That’s not what this is,” Mary Margaret promises, but that’s exactly what it is because this is far from the first time something like this has happened.

“Gimme that.” Emma leans forward, grabbing whatever it was Mary Margaret had been drinking and the alcohol stings the back of her throat. “What is this guy’s name? And, like, his life story?”

“I promise it’s far more interesting than you’re expecting.”

Emma spins on the spot – nearly falling off the stool in the process and her eyes widen. He grins at her.

That’s the first thing she notices.

It’s calm and easy, a quiet sense of self confidence that’s attractive and a little disarming and he steps into her space almost immediately.

She doesn’t move. That may be a first.

“That so?” Emma asks, doing her best to stay casual when it feels like her heart is about to beat its way out of her chest.

The smile widens. And his hair drifts towards his brows when he nods. “Decidedly.”

“Huh.”

“That’s not quite the rapt audience I was hoping for.”

Emma chuckles, downing the rest of a drink that isn’t hers. “I guess you’re just going to have to win me over or something.”

He does – although she certainly makes him work for it. His name is Killian Jones, freshly moved to New York a few weeks earlier. He’s a boxer.

“Is that still allowed?” Emma asks, drifting towards the edge of her stool. She keeps doing that, flinching when she realizes she’s about to fall over again, and she’s got a sneaky suspicion it’s because she’s trying to get closer to Killian, but that’s a great, big thought in a great, big moment and Ariel is going to be insufferable if she realizes this set-up worked.

It might have worked.

Definitely.

“Otherwise this has been a very long con,” Killian drawls over the top of his own glass. “That would be disappointing after I signed a lease.”

“A full year?” He hums. “Yeah, I doubt you could get out of that.”

“Exactly. And why fight that when I’m so interested in several other fights?”

“That was funny.”

Killian beams. “It happens from time to time. And what do you do, Swan?”

She tells him – NYPD with David, some childhood dream of _doing good_ and “to serve and protect, right?” he asks with a quirk of his eyebrows that seems to almost immediately brand itself on every inch of her brain. It’s how she met Mary Margaret and, by extension, Ariel, both teachers at the same public school and they’re a group and maybe a family and he tells her things right back.

He’s been fighting for years, “stumbled into it by accident, honestly” after joining the Navy at eighteen and “New York’s always been the goal, or so my manager will tell you.”

His manager’s name is Will Scarlet. He lives in the same building with the year-long lease.

They talk. They drink. They get irrationally competitive about trivia at the bar.

“That is just fundamentally wrong,” Emma shouts, leaning across the table they’ve commandeered in the corner. "Midichlorians aren’t an actual energy field!”

Killian shakes his head. “The Force is an energy field. Obi-Wan says so!”

“Oh my God,” Ariel grumbles, dropping her head onto her forearms like this is embarrassing. It kind of is. People are murmuring.

“Midichlorians are inside humans,” Emma argues. She doesn’t remember standing up. And Killian’s _whatever_ , it’s a smirk, it’s totally a smirk, is very distracting. “That’s how they measure it in Anakin.”

“Are you counting the _Phantom Menace_ as canon?”

“How are you not?”

“Because that’s just fundamentally wrong, Swan.”

“It’s a movie! It’s part of the lore!”

“Are we still talking about this one trivia question?” Mary Margaret asks, making a face when both Emma and Killian snap _yes_ in tandem.

Killian’s mouth twists, which only proves how much Emma is staring at his mouth. “The existence of midichlorians directly contradictions the explanation of the Force in the original trilogy,” he grumbles. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“You sound like an internet fan boy,” Emma accuses. “And that was not the question. The question was just ‘what are midichlorians.’ The answer is human cells in a human person—“

“—What about Jedi that aren’t humans? Are you suggesting Yoda is secretly a human?”

“Oh my God.”

The smirk is back. And they’ve officially run out of time to answer the question.

“You guys are banned from trivia,” David announces, hours later after more vaguely petty arguments and far too much alcohol when Emma has to be at the station at ten tomorrow morning.

She rolls her eyes. “Somehow I think I’ll survive.”

“Yeah, tell me that when you’re upset at missing out on our inevitable glory next week.”

Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat, shrugging into her jacket and Killian’s lingering in her space, that same quiet presence that’s laced with a hint of _something_ she hopes matches up with hers.

“You want to get some coffee or something?” he asks, as soon as everyone else is out of range.

“Yeah, ok.”

She’s nearly twenty minutes late to her shift the next day, the ends of her hair still damp from a shower that isn’t hers and David smiles as soon she drops into her chair.

* * *

They have every intention of telling their friends. Really. They do.

It just…never comes up.

And both Ariel and Mary Margaret are already in mourning for another set-up that “clearly didn’t work” as soon as Emma walks into the coffee place two blocks away from school.

“I really thought you guys would hit it off,” Ariel shrugs, tugging apart a croissant with a bit more force than necessary. “I didn’t factor in your mutual nerd’ness.”

Emma arches an eyebrow. “Is that an insult?”

“Didn’t it sound that way?”

“She means she thought you would have been able to bond over that, instead of argue over it,” Mary Margaret corrects.

Ariel shakes her head. “No, I did not.”

“I know you didn’t,” Emma promises. There’s not enough sugar in her coffee. “I should probably be more offended by that, right?”

Ariels shrugs again. “Depends on what you say to this, I guess.”

“This being?”

Her phone dings. She typed her number in his phone herself. After he made her breakfast.

He made her breakfast.

“How often Killian will probably be around,” Ariel continues, eyes flitting nervously towards Mary Margaret.

**The word ewok was never actually said in the original trilogy**.

_I think that’s a lie_.

**Nope, not once. Only in the credits.**

_I really don’t believe you at all._

**Well, that’s disheartening, but it just means one thing.**

_Which is?_

**We’ve got to watch the original trilogy now. And you can tell me how much more I know about the Star Wars universe than you do _._**

Emma nearly spits out her coffee. Ariel’s breath catches, which kind of makes Emma feel guilty, but her friends area also making assumptions and setting her up and—

Her phone makes more noise

**What do you say, Swan? Is it a date?**

“Em,” Ariel prompts. “Is that—I mean, he doesn’t really know anyone else and he’s got a fight in a couple of weeks. I know, well, he isn’t normal and some sci-fi know-it-all…”

“It’s fine” Emma promises. “And technically _Star Wars_ is really more epic fantasy, just set in space. So, you know…”

_Yeah. It’s a date_.

* * *

“That is distracting.”

“Hmm, that might be the point.”

Killian doesn’t look away from the tablet in his hand, film he’s supposed to be watching in prep for tomorrow’s bought. Emma’s pretty sure that’s the technical term. She’s learned some of the technical terms.

“Might be?” he echoes. He shifts when she drags her lips across the curve of his jaw, tracing a line of stubble that regularly and consistently distracts her when she thinks about it too much.

“Pleading the fifth.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works, love.”

It’s not the first time he’s called her that – it’s a _thing_ , she’s come to realize, like watching film of some boxer from Alabama he’s totally going to knock out tomorrow night – but it never fails to make her pulse beat a little more erratically than usual. It’s nice. It’s good. It’s great, even.

It’s still a goddamn secret.

“Should he be jumping around that much?” Emma asks, nodding at the fighter on the screen when he dodges an uppercut.

“He’s not jumping, Swan. He’s making a move.”

“And the move is?”

“To not get hit.”

“Seems kind of strange in a sport so devoted to hitting.”

Killian laughs, tugging her closer to his side until Emma doesn’t have any choice except to swing her legs over his. Or so she tells herself. They should tell someone. Eventually.

It’s kind of become something of a game though, wondering how long it will take their friends to realize that Emma and Killian keep spending the majority of their free time together.

“Boxing is not devoted to hitting,” Killian argues. He’s moving his hand again, fingers drawing absent-minded patterns across Emma’s back and in between her shoulder blades, carding through the ends of her hair.

“I really don’t know if you’re doing it right then.”

“That’s not what I said at all. I’m going to try and hit Chafur tomorrow, but it’s a lot more than brute strength.”

“So says you.”

“It is,” Killian promises, but his voice gets a little strained and decidedly distracted and it might have to do with whatever Emma’s doing just behind his right ear. “Swan, I can’t think when you do that.”

“That is the point. How many rounds you think you’re going to go?”

“No more than five.”

She lets out a low whistle. “That’s awfully confident.”

“You watching this guy? His whole game is to dodge. No attack in him at all.”

“And you think you’re going to do that? Attack?”

Killian nods, brushing a kiss to the top of her hair. “Several very impressive newspaper articles would inform you that I tend to do that quite often in the ring.”

“Newspapers are a dying industry.”

It gets him to laugh again. “Fair,” he agrees. “But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m going in with a plan, love. I’m going to—“

“—Attack?”

She leans back, only a little frustrated because she’s more than a little worried and they might not have told anyone, but Killian has done a fairly admirable job of working his way into the very center of her life very quickly.

A well-calculated attack. But with less punches. And more…kisses. And not really the word attack.

So, nothing like that at all.

“Mary Margaret texted me today,” Killian says, not at all what Emma expects. She blinks. “She’s uh—she asked if she could get another comp ticket to the match.”

“Is it match or bought?”

“Interchangeable. You don’t want to know why?”

Emma shakes her head. Because she knows why. “Is she a teacher too?”

“Yeah,” Killian nods. “Her name’s Aurora. And she’s very nice. And apparently likes to wear cardigans to school. And Mary Margaret thinks it’d be a good step to—“

“—To?”

“Not be hung up on you so much anymore.”

Emma’s jaw drops. She expected that even less. Killian’s whole body shakes when he laughs, a quick kiss pressed to her cheek and another to the edge of her mouth. “Are you?” she asks, barely able to get the words out before Killian finally lands on her actual mouth and she hopes they don’t ruin the tablet.

That would annoy Will.

“Hung up on you?”

Emma makes a noise, not quite the confident, vaguely-flirty one she wanted, but it gets Killian to smile and his eyes to do that _flashy_ thing they do when he stares at her a very particular way and if this is an attack, she’s more than willing to lower her fortifications or however the metaphor should work. Something about blocking, she’s sure.

“Absolutely,” Killian says, but it’s drifting closer to a growl and they don’t watch much more of the film.

* * *

Aurora is nice. And perceptive. Incredibly perceptive.

It only takes one gasp out of Emma in the third round for her to realize.

“Are you dating him?”

Emma’s eyes bug. That’s kind of an answer. It’s definitely an answer. “Yeah,” she breathes. “For, like…weeks.”

“And your friends don’t know that?”

“Yeah I'm not really sure how that happened.”

Aurora scoffs, but it almost sounds amused. “I'm actually kind of glad. He didn’t seem very interested in saying many things to me before he—what would you call it? Get on stage?”

“In the ring.”

“Ah, see you know.”

Emma’s stomach flips. And flops. “Yeah, I do.”

He wins in four rounds, arm flung into the air by a referee and there’s a smile on his face when his eyes scan the crowd. Aurora laughs again.

And Killian winks as soon as his gaze lands on Emma.

She waits until their friends have moved – Mary Margaret apologizing to Aurora because this set-up didn’t work either – taking a step into Killian’s space. He hasn’t actually put a shirt on yet, a belt hanging over his shoulder.

“You want to make fun of _Phantom Menace_ with me later?”

He barks out a laugh, smile wide and bright and Emma nearly yelps when he all but yanks her against his chest, kissing her hard and heady and it’s so goddamn right, she can’t believe they haven’t shouted it from several rooftops yet.

The Empire State Building was, like, built for feelings like this.

“I’d love that,” Killian says against her mouth. “Give me some to talk to that dying industry, ok?”

“Yeah, ok.”

They barely make it past Naboo before they’re kissing on his couch and taking clothes off and Emma smiles when she pads into the bathroom hours later to find bottles of her shampoo sitting in the shower.

She doesn’t go home that night.

* * *

“Emma has a boyfriend.”

Several people nearly choke on several different types of alcohol and Ruby looks especially smug at the table that should probably have their name on it now. It’s trivia night.

Emma and Killian have already argued about _Harry Potter_  on three different occasions.

“What?” David balks, gaping at Emma like she’s a totally different person. “Since when?”

Ruby shrugs. “For awhile now, I think.”

“You think,” Emma says. It takes everything in her to keep her voice steady, Killian’s hand drifting over her thigh under the table.

“You’ve been spending less and less time at home. You’re never around. I’m not a cop, but I think I can put two and two together.”

“But Emma doesn’t know anyone,” Mary Margaret objects, mouth dropping when she realizes what she’s said. Killian squeezes Emma’s thigh. “Ok, that’s not what I meant,” Mary Margaret continues. “I just—“

“What’s his name?” Ariel cuts in. “It’s a he, right?”

Emma nods. Killian’s fingers are tapping out a rhythm against her leg now.

“Is it serious?” David presses. “You wouldn’t stay at some guy’s apartment if it wasn’t serious.”

Emma’s pulse speeds up. Or maybe slows down. Whatever it is, it doesn’t feel very human.

“Looks serious,” Will mumbles over the top of his glass. His eyes flit towards Killian, like he’s waiting for the inevitable breakdown. There’s nothing.

“I don’t know,” Ariel objects. “If it were serious, we’d—“

“It’s serious,” Emma says, quick and far too loud and Killian’s hand tightens to a vice-like grip. “It, well—it could be serious. I think.”

He doesn’t move his hand.

“So, uh,” Emma sputters. “I’m going to get some air.”

She doesn’t run out of the bar – which is a metaphorical TKO on the very first punch, but it’s pretty damn close, warmer-than-usual air greeting her on Chambers Street. And she doesn’t want to hope he’ll follow her, but she’s drifting dangerously close to _living_ in hope and he’s got a title defense in a couple of days.

The door slams behind him.

“Serious, huh?” Killian asks, half a smirk and his tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth.

Emma shrugs. “I mean—you bought shampoo.”

“It smells good.”

“Is that weird?”

“That I think your shampoo smells good or that I’d like you to continue smelling good around me for the foreseeable future?”

“Either or.”

“Eh, maybe a little bit of both.” His hands land on her hips when he takes a step forward, close enough that it takes some twisting for Emma to rest her palms on his chest. “They’ll figure it out eventually.”

“I have no idea how they haven’t already. Have we been too subtle?”

“We could start making out in this alley and see if that sticks?”

Emma’s laugh barely has a chance to linger in the air before she’s pushing up on her toes, arms slung around Killian’s neck and that tongue thing he does is almost as potent as his left hook.

“It’s serious,” he whispers, and Emma files that away, covets the words like her own championship belt. And that’s only kind of absurd, but they’ve been secretly dating without even trying and the whole thing is absolutely ridiculous.

“You want to get out of here?”

“Very much so.”

She doesn’t go home that night either.

* * *

“You’ll be careful, right?”

It’s still early – sun just creeping in through the curtains in Killian’s room, but he’s got a full day of press and pre-match workouts and it takes forever to get from Manhattan to Coney Island in the summer.

“As careful as I can be when someone’s trying to punch me in the face.”

“I thought it was about more than just punching,” Emma says, propping her head on her hand.

Killian grins, flipping his head which only serves to make his hair shift and that’s hardly playing fair at all. “I’m not sure this guy has gotten that particular memo yet, love. Everything Scarlet’s shown me makes it seem like he goes for the kidneys a lot.”

“Isn’t that against the rules?”

“Eh.”

“Eh?”

“Eh,” Killian says again. “It’ll be fine, Swan. I’ve just got to get to him first.”

“Easy.”

“Well, you’ll be there right? Got to impress.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but they both know he’s right. He’s constantly trying to impress. And she consistently is. “Idiot,” she mumbles anyway, flopping back against his chest when he pulls on her arm. “With ridiculous brute strength.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely my calling card. Heavy-weight champion of the world.”

“In this corner…”

“Getting ready to make out with his girlfriend…”

“Just make out?”

He definitely growls. It’s stupid how attractive it is.

And it’s even more stupid how loudly Emma gasps as soon as the first hit lands – straight to the side of his head and it’s not the kidney punch Will had promised. It’s aggressive and maybe a little evil, quick jabs that land every single time until Killian’s stumbling backwards and the referee is calling for both fighters to return to their corners.

They don’t.

The hits keep coming and landing, each one louder than the last, but that may just be Emma’s pulse pounding in between her ears. Her eyes go dry from staring, breathing turning ragged as she tries to remember how important oxygen is to maintain consciousness.

Killian’s steps falter again, doing his best to keep his hands lifted by his ears. It doesn’t work. The guy Emma can’t remember the name of keeps swinging and hitting and the bell rings as soon as Killian’s knees crash onto the ring floor.

She gasps again.

And David curses. Loudly. Mary Margaret might be crying. Ariel is screaming.

“C’mon,” David says, wrapping his fingers around Emma’s and tugging her towards the hallway they left before the spot, reserved for friends and family. She assumes secret girlfriends aren’t included in that.

She doesn’t stumble when she starts to walk.

* * *

“Em,” Will says, still sitting in chairs that can’t possibly be comfortable. “Who was that?”

Emma swallows before she answers. “The nurse. Belle French.”

“Was her name important?”

“I mean—probably not, but—“

“Ms. Swan?”

She spins on the spot, nearly taking out David in the process and she hadn’t realized he’d moved towards her at some point. The doctor smiles what she assumes is supposed to be a comforting look. “Hi,” Emma mutters. “I’m uh—well, you know who I am.”

The doctor keeps smiling. “I do. And Mr. Jones is out of testing.”

“Is he ok?”

“Concussed, but awake and cognizant and, uh, asking about you. Again.”

Emma’s heart swells. That’s gross. “Can I see him?”

“Can we see him?” Will corrects, hissing when Ariel pinches his side. The doctor nods.

“For a few minutes at least. We’re you planning on staying for some time, Ms. Swan?”

The room is spinning, lights absolutely getting brighter, but Emma feels herself nod again and there wasn’t much of a decision to be made. “Yeah. I’m—I’m not going anyway.”

"Good. Mr. Jones is at the end of the hall.”

She doesn’t run, again, but it’s close, _again_ , feet moving as quickly as her heart and the pounding in her forehead. He’s in bed when she skids to a stop, far too many wires and beeping machines, but his eyes find hers almost immediately and Emma sighs.

Again.

It’s relief that time.

Killian smiles at her. "Not quite my most impressive moment, huh?"

"Ah, I don't know about that."

"Did I fall gracefully?"

"God, I hate you," Emma grumbles, a lie that's worse than anything they haven't told their friends. Killian's lips twitch. "A nurse called me to tell me that you were here. Because I'm your emergency contact."

"Yeah. They, uh—well..." He doesn't finish the thought, doesn't really have to, and Emma's smile feels equal parts unnatural and as normal as breathing. She's only recently just started breathing. “You ok?”

“You’re asking me that?”

“Eh,” Killian shrugs, shifting his arm so he can curl a finger towards her. Emma scowls. “It happened very quickly for me. One knock and it was all over.”

“Yeah, that’s not how I remember it at all.”

“C’mere, love.”

“You’re concussed.”

“Am I? No one’s actually told me that.”

“Killian.”

“Emma.”

She huffs, but it’s not frustration, it’s unspoken _everything_ and the smell of her own shampoo when her hair falls over her shoulder, and taking these few steps forward isn’t much of a decision either.

And, honestly, it’s a miracle no one figured it out before.

So, naturally, the whole lot of them stop in the doorway as soon as Emma sinks onto the edge of Killian’s hospital bed, letting his arm wrap around her when she tilts her head up. To kiss her. With witnesses.

“What the hell is this?” Will shouts, and Ariel’s words are more just general screeching. They’re going to get yelled at by the hospital staff.

Maybe for the kissing.

It can’t be good for Killian’s blood pressure or whatever.

Mary Margaret may still be crying.

“Oh my God, Ruby is going to be so mad she missed this,” David mumbles, working a laugh out of Killian and something resembling a guffaw out of Emma.

“That’s only because you owe her twenty bucks now,” Will says. Emma makes that noise again.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Ok, don’t act offended, you guys were lying to us this whole time. Hey, Hook, glad you’re not dead.”

“He was way more worried than he's acting,” Ariel promises. "It's a defense mechanism."

“Well, I’m also glad I’m not dead, so we’re kind of on even ground,” Killian says. He kisses Emma’s cheek when she turns on him. Mary Margaret definitely sniffles. “And it wasn’t really lying.”

“How you figure?” David asks.

“You guys all thought I was hung up on Emma and, you know, you weren’t really wrong.”

Ariel throws her whole head back when she laughs, leaning back against Will’s chest so she doesn’t fall over. He hooks his chin over her shoulder, studying both Emma and Killian critically.

“Emma said she was dating someone who might have been serious.”

“That kind of sounds like an accusation,” Emma points out.

“It kind of was.”

“Well, it kind of might be.”

“Is,” Killian corrects softly, another kiss that makes Emma shiver slightly.

Mary Margaret wipes her hand under her eye. “Is? As in currently.”

“Yeah,” Emma whispers. She moves again, twisting so her legs on the bed are pressed up against Killian’s and there’s always shampoo in the shower. “Currently.”

“But you didn’t say anything!”

“Trust me, it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

“And then it got to be so long it almost would have been weirder if we brought it up,” Killian says. “It was more fun just seeing how long it would take you guys to realize.”

“We weren’t really being secretive about it,” Emma adds. “Trust me, Ruby’s been going on about it for weeks. I haven’t been trying to hide that I’m pretty all in on this.”

She doesn’t mean to say it. But, then again, she didn’t mean to be in a secret relationship for the last four months and she certainly didn’t mean for her friends to find out about said relationship this particular way, so, really, this should not be much of a surprise.

Killian’s incredibly tense body suggests otherwise.

“Swan,” he mutters, Emma’s teeth digging into her lower lip.

She turns slowly, jutting her chin out in something almost close to relationship defiance. But then she sees the look on his face – that same quiet hope from the very first time she saw him mixed with a hint of the hope she’s been clinging to for months and how much she wants and—

“I love you,” she says, before she can lose her nerve. Mary Margaret sniffles again. “Just—I do. And it’s been easy to and simple too, which, is the exact opposite of anything I ever expected from an Ariel and Mary Margaret set-up, but…” Emma exhales. Killian doesn’t blink. “I was so worried about you.”

He doesn’t move away from her when he lifts his hand, brushing his thumb over her cheek and there are tears that. That should probably be embarrassing. It’s kind of nice.

And, honestly, she expects the kiss. Is ready for it. Wants it. Quite possibly needs it. But it still manages to make Emma’s stomach twist and her heart leap into her throat and there are several _whoops_ from the peanut gallery.

“I love you,” Killian says, nothing extra, no add-ons or unnecessary punches pulled. Just there. Honest and truthful and in front of everyone. “I’m sorry you were worried.”

“Win the next one and we’ll call it even.”

“God,” David groans. “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?”

Emma shrugs. Killian doesn’t let her turn around. “This is how it’s been the whole time, you guys are just horribly unperceptive.”

“Plus,” Killian says, mostly into Emma’s hair. “You were here for true love declarations, so you know—“

Emma’s stomach is a biological marvel.

“True love, huh?”

“Doubts, Swan?”

“None,” she says, meaning it. Killian beams.

And David groans. Loudly. It’s louder when they tell Ruby, a quick exchange of money that she promises to _brag about for the rest of time because I totally knew_ , but Emma barely pays attention, far too preoccupied with making sure Killian takes all his medicine exactly when Dr. Whale told her he had to.

He doesn’t argue. Much.

He argues less when she kisses him.

She keeps kissing him. In his apartment and her apartment and _their_ apartment because, eventually, it doesn’t make much sense to be buying two bottles of the same shampoo. And, again, when he gets back in the ring, a win that goes the distance and requires a decision that Emma announces is _obvious_ , but takes the judges a small eternity to decide on.

She runs into the ring, but Killian catches her around the waist, kissing her like he’s been waiting the whole match for her to get there.

It’s, well, perfect.

Plus, it’s harder to keep a relationship secret when there are cameras and newspapers documenting the evidence. Emma prints out the picture, hanging it on their fridge the next morning while Killian makes breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, guys. My brain was like "I'm not going to keep spamming the internet with words in 2019," but new year, same ol' me. I'm trying to clear out some of the prompts that are in my inbox. So, you know, feel free to send more prompts if you're so inclined. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and clicking and being generally fantastic. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/)


	31. Holding On

She spins around so quickly she nearly stabs him. 

“Bloody fu--” Hook shakes his head, eyeing her with something that looks like barely contained fury and that’s fair. 

Emma knows it is. 

Because it’s been two days already and they’re not any closer to finding Henry or the Lost Boys and she’s fairly certain Peter Pan is actively trying to drive her insane, which, really should not surprise her at this point, but it may actually be working and--

“Can you put the blade down, love?”  
  
Emma hums, widening her eyes slightly and Hook nods at the cutlass in her hand. She’s not sure if that’s the right word. 

She’s not sure of anything. 

She has no idea how to read Pan’s stupid map. 

“The blade,” Hook repeats. He leans to his left slightly, hooking his, well, hook around her wrist and tugging her arm back to her side. It’s forceful, but not in a way that feels like anything more than the distinct desire not to be stabbed. 

It’s...no. Emma does not have time for that. She’s got--things, lots of things, incredibly important son-saving things and a variety of villains to deal with and the goddamn, fucking map to figure out and--

“Are you following me?” Emma asks, voice snapping in the otherwise silent jungle. She hadn’t noticed that at first. 

Neverland, by its very nature, appears to be the loudest place in the known universe. There are bugs and more bugs and Emma can’t remember the last time she didn’t feel bone-weary, not able to close her eyes when she can hear the Lost Boys. It makes her heart twist and her stomach clench and reminds of things she never wants to remember. 

It’s difficult to breathe in Neverland. 

It’s difficult to breathe with her parents watching her every move and Regina wearing a pantsuit like that’s an appropriate son-saving outfit and Neal is  _ dead _ and she’s got no idea where Rumplestilskin is and--

“Were you going to answer or just stare at me some more?”  
  
Hook’s lips twitch, and Emma isn’t sure if she should congratulate herself for that or not. She’s leaning towards not. Because her stomach is doing that thing again. 

“To be fair, Swan, you make it rather easy.”

Her groan sounds impossibly loud. “Is deflection part of the pirate code or something?”  
  
“I wasn’t aware of a code.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Seems to fly in the face of most piratical tendencies, doesn’t it?”  
  
“I have not had enough sleep for any of those words,” Emma mumbles, drawing a quiet laugh out of Hook and for half a moment she’s really, truly, genuinely stunned. And so is he. Because, for half a moment, that sound is normal and, maybe a bit hopeful, and there are a ridiculous number of stars in Neverland. 

They all seem to be reflecting off of them at that very moment. 

She’s definitely gone insane. 

She hopes Pan doesn’t realize that, like, immediately. 

“That’s part of my reasoning, as a matter of fact,” Hook mutters, and he’s never actually moved away from her. The metal on her skin isn’t as cold anymore, but there are still goosebumps on her arm and Emma has to take a deep breath because she knows they have nothing to do with the metal at all. 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping. It’s my turn for watch.”  
  
“And yet you’re out exploring.”  
  
“You make it sound like a game.”  
  
Hook shakes his head. “The opposite. Do you have any idea what you’re walking towards?”  
  
“It’s not like I’ve been to Neverland before.”

He licks his lips – frustration obvious and only slightly distracting. Emma is going to blame the stars and whatever his fingers do against the side of his coat, tapping out an impatient rhythm. 

He’s not asleep either. 

She doesn’t ask about that. 

She doesn’t really have to. 

“It’s dangerous,” Hook snaps, as if that’s enough an explanation. 

Emma scowls. “So is everything in this hell hole. Tell me something I don’t know.”  
  
He doesn’t answer immediately and something in the back of Emma’s mind rises at that, questions and curiosities and there’s so much she doesn’t know about him. She isn’t sure she wants to know. She isn’t sure what she’ll do if she doesn’t know. 

The muscles in Hook’s throat move when he swallows, another twist of his lips that makes it all too obvious how often Emma is staring at his lips, and, he finally, lets go of her wrist. 

His fingers move to the hilt of his sword. 

“There are places on this island with...nothing,” he starts. “No people, no beasts, no Lost Boys. Places that are--” Hook exhales, the force of it enough to make the ends of Emma’s hair ruffle slightly and she didn’t realize how close they were standing. “Just...empty.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“And that’s the rub isn’t it? There’s not anything to understand.”  
  
“Should I make that joke about no sleep again?”  
  
Hook scoffs, the hint of a smile tugging at the ends of his mouth. Emma is having a difficult time keeping her eyes open. “No, that’s alright, love,” he says, softer than anything he’s said in...ever. Maybe. Definitely. 

This may be a dream. 

She hopes not. 

“Have you,” Emma whispers, eyes moving anywhere except Hook’s face, “have you been to some of these places? Nowhereland?”  
  
“Clever title.”  
  
“Not an answer.”  
  
He makes a noise in the back of his throat, a sound that makes it all but impossible for Emma to pull her eyes up and the air in Neverland is always oppressive, humid and heavy, but now it feels as if it’s filling her lungs with cement. She pulls her lips behind her teeth. 

“Once,” Hook answers. “A very long time ago.”   
  
“And I take it it didn’t end well?”    
  
“No, it did not. These places, they’re--it’s as if everything gets pulled out of you. Every thought, every belief, every ounce of...humanity left in you.”    
  
“Why?” Hook eyes her – a flash of _ something _ and Emma digs her boots into the ground. “It’s not as if either one of us is going to sleep any time soon.”   
  
“I think it’s Pan,” he says. His knuckles have gone white gripping his sword. “I think it’s the realm responding to Pan and every single whim that passes through the demon’s mind.”    
  
“You think the--what? The island is trying to pull goodness out of people? Why?”    
  
“Magic,” Hook replies simply. “Those are places with nothing left, love. The magic on this island has been withering for years. It’s like--a flame with only a bit of wax below it. Flickering and doing its best to hold on, but--”    
  
“--It’s only a matter of time,” Emma finishes, Hook nodding in agreement. “So Neverland is trying to make up for it by drawing people to…”  
  
“Nothing.”

She bit her lip at some point. There’s blood in her mouth. And every single one of her muscles feels like it’s stretched too tight and too thin, a discomfort that’s worse than exhaustion because this is more than exhaustion and Hook tilts his head when she looks at him. 

“You didn’t have to follow me,” Emma says. Her voice cracks. 

And Hook shakes his head again, strands of hair brushing dangerously close to his brows, which only makes her hold his gaze longer and the whole thing is as absurd as it isn’t because he’s goddamn  _ Captain Hook _ and Neverland is trying to drain them all of their life force and she’s going to strangle Peter Pan as soon as she sees him. 

“Didn’t I, though?”

Emma doesn’t answer. She’s not sure she can. 

And that’s probably for the best because she’s not entirely prepared for Hook to shift on his feet, standing up a bit straighter with shoulders set and that same flash in his eyes, a glint of a memory and a moment and she doesn’t actually gasp when he offers her his arm. 

She takes it, looping her own around the bend of his elbow and the leather is soft against her skin.

“We’re going to find him, Emma,” Hook says, quiet and certain. She nods. She believes him. 

* * *

 

“What is he going to do? I’ve got magic, he’s got one hand!”

She hates herself as soon as the words come out of her mouth. Truth be told, she hated herself as soon as the words landed on the tip of her tongue and whatever part of her brain controlled motor skills, but Emma isn’t sure her heart has beat at a regular rhythm in the last seventy-two hours and the look on Hook’s face is--

“You know I’m good in a fight,” he counters, and she knows it’s a defense mechanism. 

She knows. 

_ She knows _ . 

She knows he did the best he could, was trying to protect Henry and her and probably the entire goddamn town because he may actually not be the villain she needs him to be. 

He’s not. 

She knows that too. 

“At the very least he can draw fire,” David reasons. Hook’s expression shifts again. 

“Oh, now I’m cannon fodder?”

Emma’s going to scream. That seems kind of selfish, though, with Mary Margaret in labor and Zelena who knows where and she, somehow, is still dealing with Rumplestilskin. 

There is not enough oxygen in this hospital for the amount of groaning she’d like to be doing. 

David doesn’t blink when he looks at her. 

And her groan sounds kind of pathetic, really. 

“Fine,” she sighs, complete with an arm movement that is the height of melodrama. “He can come. “  
  
Hook glances at her, shoulders slumped and something that feels distinctly like defeat sitting across them. The light in the hospital hallway looks ridiculous glinting off the hilt of his sword.

That sentence isn’t as strange as it probably should be. 

“Fine,” he nods, succinct and distinctly unemotional and there should not be any emotion there. Emma does not have time for emotion. She’s going to do this, save everyone because that’s her  _ job _ , and then she’s packing up her stuff and taking her kid as far away from magic and danger and wicked witches as she possibly can. 

She’s going back home. She thinks. She  _ knows _ . She’s got no goddamn idea. 

“Shall we?” Hook presses. 

Emma barely looks at him when she answers, already moving towards Henry. “Hang on, give me a sec.”

She hugs her kid. 

“You ready, Swan?”  
  
She hugs her kid tighter. 

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “Let’s end this.”

It, well, it goes to shit from there. And, honestly, Emma isn’t even really sure how, which makes it that much worse. It’s half a moment and a splash of water and he’s already so cold when she pulls him back onto the ground, a pallor to his skin that makes the breath catch in her throat. 

Emma doesn’t know what to do. 

She can’t move her hands fast enough – memories of middle school health classes and a plastic dummy some kid she can’t remember the name of tried to kiss at one point and there’s something about chest compressions. 

“There’s got to be water in his lungs,” she mumbles, half to herself and half to some greater power and she can feel the magic roaring in her ears. 

It doesn’t help her. It’s too much and not enough, all at once, a rush of everything and nothing and-- _ Let me guess, with you? _

“Oh, fucking hell,” Emma says, blinking so the tears she can barely feel in the corner of her eyes don’t fall on her cheeks. She shakes him, desperation clawing its way to the surface and her fingers feel like they’re on fire. 

“Hook, wake up! Killian! Killian, come back to me!”

And, well, there it is. 

The truth and the feeling and the magic in her seems to simmer, a fire low in her belly and in between every single one of her ribs and he’s not breathing. 

He’s got to come back. 

He had come back. 

_ She knows _ . 

“Son of a bitch,” Emma hisses, and it doesn’t take long to decide. She’s not sure there really was much of a decision. 

She presses her lips to his. 

And it happens almost immediately, a tug and a pull and the emptiness she feels in every single one of her limbs is only a little jarring. There are tears on her cheek. She’s got no idea what she’s doing with her thumb, but Emma can’t stop touching him, still a hint desperate and a bit selfish and she wants far more than she’s willing to admit. 

He coughs before he opens his eyes, water and air in equal measure, snapping his head back towards Emma in a way that can’t possibly be safe for someone who very nearly drowned. 

Or did drown. 

Emma doesn’t know the specifics. 

“Swan,” he mumbles, and it’s probably wrong for several of her internal organs to react the way they do. His fingers drift towards his mouth, eyes widening and the terror that etches itself on his face is...she can’t breath. “Swan, what did you do? What did you do?”

She doesn’t answer. 

He knows. 

Emma swallows, standing up and offering Hoo--Kill-- _ no, _ Hook, her hand. He takes it, palm still clammy and grip on the wrong side of shaky, but he doesn’t let go even when they start walking away from the farmhouse and neither one of them say anything when Emma twists her arm around his. 

* * *

She can’t breathe. 

Emma refuses to question whether or not that’s because of the corset in her dress or because she’s having a difficult time forming coherent sentences every time she looks to her left. 

That jacket is--

“Just when I thought the clothes here couldn’t get any worse,” she grumbles, letting her eyes flit around the ballroom and there is actually a man standing there to take their invitations. 

The whole thing is absurd. 

And over the top. 

And she wonders if it’d be weird to ask Rumplestilskin if they could bring that jacket home. 

Or, well, Storybrooke. 

Or, well, the present. 

She’s going back to New York. 

Yes. Right? Absolutely. 

They’ve just got to get her parents to fall in love first. 

Simple. 

Emma has no memory of moving her arm, is only aware of its current state when her fingers start to tingle from being airborne for so long and she can hear the smile in his voice before she even looks up. 

This jacket is causing problems. 

“You might not be able to move Swan, but you cut quite a figure in that dress.”

She smiles. And the not-so-small flutter of emotion that lingers on every inch of her skin feels a bit like sparks and a hint like magic and both of those things are impossibilities. 

Emma doesn’t have magic anymore. 

She’s got a schedule to stick to – one that goddamn King Midas almost destroys, but she can’t find it in herself to be too frustrated because that is how she learns that Captain Hook may actually be the world’s worst liar in a variety of different realms and various timelines. 

He stammers and stutters and his eyes widen in a way that almost makes him look innocent, which is absurd because he’s  _ Captain Hook _ , but the jacket, God the fucking jacket, is messing with her head and her opinions on monarchies and it might me fun to play princess for a moment. 

Just a moment. 

It makes her heart sputter in her chest. 

She has to glance down to make sure her left foot isn’t actually emitting flames. 

Nothing. 

Of course not. 

Maybe playing is overrated. Maybe Emma is kind of bitter. She assumes it has something to do with the corset. 

“Mary Margaret and David are always going on about this ball or that ball,” Emma whispers, leaning a bit closer because the music is loud and there are lots of people and she’s glad she’s not the worst liar in that room. It’s comforting while she’s lying. “What’s the big deal about these things?”

When she was ten she’d gone to a school that encouraged students to dress up on Halloween and Evelyn Sola had dressed up as a princess. No specific princess. Just a princess. Her mother had made the dress, far more intricate than anything bought in the costume store in the strip mall on the other side of town, with beading and bright colors and Emma still isn’t sure if she’s ever been more jealous than she was walking into that classroom on a Thursday morning.

She’s a walking contradiction and a liar and--her jaw drops. She’s fairly certain her knees wobble a bit too and it’s suddenly difficult to walk, but there’s still an arm wrapped around hers and he doesn’t let her fall. 

She can still hear the smile. 

“You were saying?”  
  
Emma never graduated high school so she would argue that’s why she can’t come up with anything witty to say – no quick comeback or slightly biting retort and it’s really probably the goddamn jacket and whatever his fingers keep doing when they happen to brush over her skin.

Her feet still aren’t on fire. 

“What am I supposed to do?”  
  
“Blend in.”  
  
He doesn’t waver when he wraps his fingers around hers – no trace of lie or anything except the absolute certainty that the schedule can wait a moment and the moment can linger and it’s nice in a way that is far bigger than nice. 

“Wait, are you saying you know how to do whatever this is?”  
  
“It’s called a waltz, Swan. There’s only one rule, pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”  
  
Emma smiles, the closeness of him overwhelming and a little intoxicating and she hadn’t gotten drunk that Halloween – she’d been ten for god’s sake, but there were other Halloweens and other almosts and she can’t remember a single one of them feeling like this. 

He starts moving.

She follows. 

Or the other way around because the specifics don’t matter and the moments stretches out and Emma takes a deep breath as soon as Killian Jones calls her  _ your highness _ and keeps his arm wrapped around her. 

* * *

He flinches when she touches him. 

It makes her blood run cold, which is not a pun Emma has time for when dealing with evil snow queens and memories she’s only recently remembered, but Killian’s jaw clenches and she swears her heart stops for a moment. 

He doesn’t blink. 

Every movement looks exaggerated and over the top, a twist of his hand or tilt of his head. He keeps clenching his jaw. 

And Emma knows something is wrong. 

“The important thing is, it works,” Killian says, a promise that rings hollow in the middle of Granny’s. “All they have to do is walk through it.”

“Then we should go.”  
  
“Brilliant. I, alas, bruised myself during the curse. Really need to get it seen to.”  
  
Something is wrong.

She knew it before the curse and during the curse and this is--

He’s already walking away from her. That doesn’t happen. Ever. 

“Hey, Killian,” Emma says quickly, stepping back into his space and his eyes widen when her hand lands on his cheek. “What’s wrong? You are acting strange.”  
  
He tries to smile. It absolutely does not work. 

“Nothing. I’m fine.”   
  
He kisses her wrong. Again. It’s too quick and too...nothing, no feeling or emotion and the Killian she--no, it’s far too early and there still far too many threats and something is  _ wrong _ . 

“See you around...love.”

Killian moves again, a step to his right, but it’s as if his hand hasn’t gotten the message and the grip he has on Emma’s forearm will probably leave a mark. His fingers shake with the effort of holding on, like he’s trying to grip something or make sure it doesn’t disappear and Emma resists the urge to touch him again. 

He lets go with a flourish. 

And, Emma realizes belatedly, it’s the first time he’s tried to hold onto her arm in weeks. 

* * *

Rumplestilskin is gone. 

Emma Swan is so goddamn happy she sometimes worries she’ll actually burst with the feel of it.

That may be her magic, honestly. 

And it’s got nothing to do with Rumplestilskin.   
  
It’s got everything to do with the easy quiet and the sense of peace and she’s started using the phrase  _ boyfriend _ out loud. 

It makes him smile. 

So she keeps doing it. 

The muscles in her face are going to get stuck that way. 

They go on dates. They don’t go on dates. They sit on the couch in her parent's loft with her kid and movies in the background and it’s nice and normal and better than both of those words. 

And she’s fairly positive the arm thing is, in fact, a Navy thing. 

He told her about it a few days before – quiet admissions walking down Main Street because that’s a thing they do now, they take walks and they talk and they explain and admit and a whole slew of other verbs that aren’t nearly as bad as Emma always thought they had to be. 

“Liam was a stubborn git sometimes, but he was--” Killian had said, taking a deep breath and his fingers still move every time he hooks his arm around hers. Like he’s tracing her skin or committing to memory. There’s probably a map joke to be made. “He got us that life. It was..respectable, honorable.”   
_  
A gentleman _ . 

Honestly, the muscles in her face don’t know what have hit them in the last few weeks. 

“You ready to go, love?”   
  
Emma’s head snaps up to find Killian holding her jacket in his hand, standing in Regina’s foyer because they had  _ Sunday dinner _ and it was only a little weird, but that might have just been her and Henry is staying there tonight. 

She nods. 

Killian beams. 

“You want to walk?” she asks, sliding her arms into the offered jacket. “I can put my jacket on myself, you know.”   
  
He hums, a hint of teasing in the sound that really isn’t playing fair at all, but then his lips brush behind her ear and that’s even worse. Better. Definitely better. “A fact I’m all too aware of,” Killian promises. “Let’s walk.”    
  
They say their goodbyes, promises to  _ see you soon _ as if they don’t see each other every day, and Emma isn’t surprised when he offers her his arm as soon as the front door closes behind them. It makes the magic flutter in her veins. 

And it’s totally a Navy thing – a bit of the past and the present, the desperate desire to live up to something, still and always, and Emma isn’t even sure he realizes he keeps doing it, and--

“Did you leave a string of broken hearts in your wake, Lieutenant?” she asks, pulling herself closer to Killian’s side. He’s always impossibly warm. 

“It’s insulting not to use a man’s proper rank, Swan.”  
  
She nods again, nose scrunched and lips twisted because those things never fail to make the tips of Killian’s ears turn red. “You’re still not very good at deflecting. I’m serious. I’d imagine all the young ladies in a variety of ports swooned quite a bit.”  
  
“I think this means you’re swooning.”  
  
“Deflecting.”  
  
Killian chuckles, a press of his lips to the top of her hair even as they walk towards Granny’s. “Not as such.”  
  
“I think you’re leaving out the most interesting parts of this story. Captain.”  
  
His eyes flash, turning on her suddenly enough that the breath rushes out of her and they’ve made it across town far quicker than she expected. She’s pressed up against a door far quicker than she expected as well, a quick roll of hips and teeth grazing on the side of her neck and that goddamn spot behind her ear, something about treasure and pirates and she’s never really been jealous, but she doesn’t want there to have been anyone else. 

Not anymore. 

Not--no, she’ll get there eventually. 

In the meantime she’s more than willing to frustrate Granny and, possibly, break a few public indecency laws because her boyfriend is exceptionally good at kissing her. 

“I like that better,” Killian mumbles against her mouth, fingers ghosting over her hip. There’s more kissing and more fingers, which is biologically impossible, but Emma’s magic feels as if it’s pouring out of her so maybe she’s just evolving right there, and she doesn’t hear him at first. 

“What?”

“Stay?” he repeats, a question and a want and she must respond. She, at least, nods. 

Her shirt is halfway off before they unlock his door. 

And she falls asleep with an arm wrapped around her. 

* * *

“Well, you don’t look like a crocodile.”

“Guess I lucked out.”   
  
She can’t possibly be expected to deal with his eyebrows. Not when it feels as if she’s been twisted and reformed, new and the same, good and bad, light and dark. But he’s standing there and smiling and she wants, wants,  _ wants _ . 

“He never did say it back did he?”

Emma ignores it, the voice in the back of her head and the desire that burns right in the middle of her. The need to take and control and she  _ deserves _ it. 

It’s her right. After everything, years and loneliness and never getting what she wanted, the world owes her. Several different realms owe her. 

All of goddamn magic owes her. 

The voice laughs. 

“Here,” her mother says, brandishing the dagger in front of Emma and the voice disappears as soon as it arrives. “We think you should have this.”

Emma can taste the temptation on her tongue, sweet like...God, she doesn’t know. She can’t possibly know. She can’t keep a single thought in check, each one appearing and dissolving like fog on the water and smoke in the air and her fingers tingle at her side. 

She wants. 

She wants too much. 

She wants Killian to take another step towards her. 

“Of course,” the voice adds with a slightly different lilt, and Emma doesn’t dare take her eyes off the dagger, “you didn’t really give him a chance did you. Far too self-sacrificing for your own good. What’s a poor pirate to do?”  
  
Emma grits her teeth, swallowing back her retort. Whatever her parents are saying is nothing more than a buzz in her ears, a distraction and a pull and the magic is strong. Too strong. 

Overwhelming. 

She glances away from the dagger. Rumplestilskin doesn’t say anything. And she knows he wasn’t the one speaking. 

There’s more than one. 

“No,” Emma says, doing her best to make the word sound certain. 

It’s not. 

Rumplestilskin doesn’t blink. 

And she gives the dagger to Regina. 

She’s less certain about that. 

There isn’t time to second-guess, though – there’s explanations and Granny’s and Killian’s arm finds hers as soon as they start walking because, apparently, they’re in Camelot now. With knights and the round table and goddamn King Arthur. 

She tugs herself closer to his side, trying to cling to  _ something  _ she isn’t sure has a name, but may just be a feeling, the steady certainty of him and the quiet confidence and she wants, wants,  _ wants _ . 

And Emma knows something is off as soon as they set foot on the drawbridge, a shadow to it all that doesn’t ring true with the legend she knows, but there’s no time for that either. 

There is a dance. 

Apparently. 

“We don’t have time to waste on a bloody dance,” Killian seethes, pulled away from the crowd with his hook resting on the small of Emma’s back. 

“I’m not going to go dark in one night,” Emma argues. That want is back, growing and festering until she wonders if it’s worked its way into her bloodstream and her muscles and the tips of her fingers. He’s a good dancer. 

He may get a new jacket. 

“He didn’t say it back,” the voice calls. “Still. There’s been plenty of time, don’t you think?”  
  
Emma ignores it, tilting her head up to find a pinch between Killian’s eyebrows. There’s tension in his shoulders and a clench to his jaw, exhaustion lingering in the air around him. 

“I’m not willing to take that chance,” he says. 

He takes a step away from her. 

The voice laughs. “Nothing.”

* * *

She hugs her kid. Tightly. As tightly as she can. And does her best to cling to some semblance of hope because, at this point, everything has felt a little hopeless and she’s not sure if her eyes will ever be prepared for normal sunlight and Killian keeps glancing at his shoes.

Henry squeezes her back. 

He doesn’t say anything when she and Killian walk away, which is equal parts the worst thing that’s ever happened to her and some kind of rather large mercy. 

Emma keeps her head up when she moves, half a step in front of Killian with her fucking heart in a bag and the elevator door rattles when he yanks it closed. She doesn’t really think about what she does next. 

She turns, whether on instinct or want or true  _ goddamn _ love, it doesn’t really matter. Her feet twist and her face turns towards his shoulder, arm wrapping around his until they’re practically occupying the same few inches of space and it still isn’t close enough. 

Emma isn’t sure anything ever really would be. 

And she knows it’s greedy and needy and several other buzzwords with decidedly negative connotations, but she can’t bring herself to care because it’s  _ this _ and  _ them _ and she’s not leaving without him. 

She’s not. 

He kisses the crown of her head without a word. 

There’s no ambrosia. There’s true love and tests and the feel of him under her when she pushes him out of the flames, but there’s no ambrosia and Emma feels that last bit of hope flare out as soon as Killian’s fingers catch hers in the chamber. 

“What?” she whispers, and it’s a stupid question because she knows that look and knows that answer and her vision is already starting to swim in front of her eyes. 

“I’m not going up with you. I never was. We’re never going to find anything up there to save me.”

Emma argues. She steps forward only try and pull him back, move him into her space again, but he doesn’t shift, doesn’t flinch and--

“I’m afraid we don’t have that choice, love.”

There are words, promises and emotions and his hand on her cheek. It’s not enough. Still or always or whatever. 

Fuck. 

The elevator door creaks again when he pulls it down, and Emma can’t breathe, can’t think, is teetering on the edge of several metaphorical cliffs in the middle of the Underworld and Killian Jones has the audacity to even try and smile at her. 

“I love you.”  
  
“I love you, too.”

His skin is cold when she kisses him, fingers wrapping around the back of his neck in a misplaced effort to keep him there and with her because she’s stubborn and desperate and the magic in her cries out to do something. 

Anything. 

There isn’t anything to do. 

Maybe there never was. 

Fuck. Again. 

He has to press up on his toes to keep her hand in his, lips brushing over the back of her palm with a reverence that makes her tears fall faster. And his fingers grapple to hold onto her, but the elevator is moving and it all feels so final and so certain and the door presses into her stomach when Emma tries to keep touching him. 

She can’t. 

The magic lingers anyway, an electric current in her veins and her arteries and she never graduated high school, she doesn’t know how biology works, but her arm feels heavy at her side as the tears continue to fall down her cheeks. 

* * *

He’s really the world’s worst liar.

“They’re thousands of leagues under the sea. No one will be able to find them, not even Poseidon himself.”  
  
Honestly. 

The world’s worst liar. 

Emma smiles anyway, hands on Killian’s chest and there’s a chill in the air that feels oddly appropriate. Regina was right; magic is frustratingly literal sometimes. 

So, she does the only thing she can think of to be less frustrated. About everything. Prophecy and fate and Evil Queens and scissors that could change the course of everything. She barely even tugs on his shirt before Killian moves, ducking his head and letting Emma catch his lips with hers. 

It’s not a rushed thing, no overwhelming emotions or metaphors about waves or anything like that. It’s easy and simple and home. It’s the exact opposite of everything else. 

Probably something about a safe harbor. 

Making jokes seems kind of tactless in the moment, though. 

“Thank you,” Emma whispers. She doesn’t move her hands. 

“There’s a storm coming.”   
  
“Seems like a perfect night for a fire and some hot buttered rum.”    
  
Killian’s expression doesn’t change much, but she’s gotten pretty good at this whole relationship thing and, well,  _ life _ thing and he’s so bad at lying. It would be funny if he weren’t making sweeping statements about the weather. 

And she wasn’t fated to die. 

That sucked. 

Honestly. 

“Sounds like heaven,” Killian says, less of a lie than anything else he’s said. “Just need to check on the old girl. Secure the rigging.”

“Pizza or Chinese?”  
  
“Your heart’s desire, Swan. I promise, that’s all I want you to have.”  
  
He brushes his knuckles across her cheek before he kisses her, another soft press that leaves her stomach swooping and her heart beating irregularly and she’s never actually asked if he can feel her magic, but Emma’s got some fairly strong suspicions. 

She knows he didn’t get rid of the shears. 

And she understands why. 

Perfectly.

Emma smiles again before she turns away, ignoring, for a moment, everything that’s wrong in favor of everything that’s right and the certainty that this is absolutely, positively, one of those things. In spades or something. 

She needs to stop making jokes in her head. 

She waits at the end of the docks, texting Henry to give the pizza guy the five bucks sitting on the kitchen table, and Killian blinks when he notices her. 

“You want to walk me home?” Emma asks, a fairly pitiful attempt at coy. It might kind of be flirting though, and the smile on his face when he realizes that is enough. 

Killian nods. “Aye, I do.”  
  
“Figured.”  
  
She twists her arm around his before he offers it. 

* * *

Dying, Emma quickly realizes, has a way of starkly throwing everything into perspective. 

And, she’s even quicker to realize, throwing her husband into full-on pirate protector mode. 

The thought makes her smile.

Husband. 

She’s got a husband. 

_ A husband _ . 

“You really shouldn’t be awake.”

Emma bites her lower lip, burrowing further against the small mountain of pillows behind her because she refuses to be held responsible for her reaction to Killian standing in the doorway.

Their doorway. 

In their house. 

That they share. 

Together. 

Because they’re married. 

He’s her husband. 

She feels a little drunk. 

“I can’t possibly sleep twenty-four hours a day, babe,” she says, an old argument that he seems determined to prove wrong. Emma is certain, if Killian had his way, she would sleep for several weeks straight, and for the first few days after The Final Battle, she wouldn't have questioned it.

Dying, it seems, is also a very good way to exhaust a person. 

She’d felt drained, as if she’d been deflated or some other word a human being never should feel, but it had been difficult to stand and even more difficult to feel her magic and although Emma’s first few memories after that moment were hazy at best, she distinctly remembers Killian picking her up at some point. 

And mumbling  _ a tradition, love _ when he carried her through the doorway. 

“I think you could definitely try,” Killian counters. The floorboards creak when he steps into the room, but he’s stopped refusing to sit on the edge of the bed now, so Emma figures that makes it a wash. “It’s not unreasonable.”  
  
“It’s ridiculous.”  
  
“It’s cautious. At best.”  
  
“Worst.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
Emma shakes her head, and she does feel bad because, well, she _died_ , but he died, like, three times and it’s certainly not a competition. So she keeps telling herself. She just--”Why are you in here? What time is it even?”  
  
“Almost four.”  
  
“Is Henry back from school yet?”  
  
“I believe he was helping your mother with some sort of event after the end of the day,” Killian says. “Archery or…”  
  
“Oh yeah, yeah, I think she texted me about that.” Killian’s eyebrows fly up his forehead so quickly Emma can’t help but laugh. “You’ll have to take away my communication devices if you’re going to actually put me in solitary, Captain.”  
  
He scowls, but there’s still a bit of worry and anxiety lingering around him. Emma can almost see it. She might actually be able to see it. 

“What the…” she starts, reaching out towards the tip of his ear and the side of his neck and she knows she doesn’t imagine the way he shudders when the tips of her fingers brush his skin. “Did you feel that?”  
  
Killian nods. “Aye.”  
  
“Did you--have you always been able to feel that?”  
  
Silence. Emma tries not to be frustrated by that. She’s more frustrated with whatever that one pillow is doing to her spine anyway. 

“Babe,” she prompts, and his lips quirk in response. “Have you always been able to feel my magic?”

“Not at first.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But,” Killian echoes. “Uh...after Zelena. When it--when it was gone, it was a bit like being thrown off course.”  
  
“The nautical puns have got to stop.”  
  
He rolls his eyes, shifting closer to her until his forehead rests on hers. “I thought I felt it in the past, before you got it back. When--”  
  
“--Dancing,” Emma finishes, Killian pulling back to gape at her. The blush in her cheeks is almost pleasantly warm. “Is it a Navy thing? Honestly.”  
  
“Is what a Navy thing?”  
  
She rolls her whole head – which only serves to make Killian widen his eyes in reproach, but that was also kind of the goal and she’s missed flirting for the sake of flirting. They’re really good at flirting with each other. “It totally freaked me out the first time you did it,” Emma continues. “You were going on about magic holes in Neverland and nothing and you just...you offered me your arm and I--”  
  
“--Took it,” Killian finishes. “If memory serves.”  
  
“Yeah, I did.”  
  
He chuckles softly, ducking his head to kiss her and it’s not enough. It’s not ever, but now there’s time to try and get there. That’s nice. 

That’s better than nice. 

“We were always told to offer your lady your arm,” he says, low and intent. His eyebrows jump again when Emma’s magic practically roars. “The Royal Navy was very fond of propriety.”  
  
“Your lady, huh?”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“Not all the ladies?”  
  
“Is that a note of jealousy I hear, Swan?”  
  
“Confirmation.”

Killian nods, lower lip jutted out slightly and that only makes it easier to nip at it. “Lady,” he says. “Singular. The Royal Navy frowned on flirting quite a bit.”  
  
“A shame when you're so good at it.”  
  
“And that, my love, sounds a bit like a compliment.”  
  
Emma can’t help the smile that stretches across her face – the rush of warmth that runs from her head to her toes, moving into her fingertips and lingering in the spaces around her heart. She’s getting out this bed. Today. 

“Might have been,” she shrugs, if only to make his eyes flash. It works. They’re very good at flirting. “I’m really not going back to sleep, you know.”  
  
“Figured as much.”  
  
“Then…”  
  
He kisses her before she can make any more veiled allusions to other things the Royal Navy would very likely disapprove of. The pillow stops bothering her when they knock it on the floor. 

And it’s not that much later, only a few clothes back on, with the sheets twisted around them when Emma announces  _ we’re going to Granny’s _ and she’s even less surprised that Killian tells her that was half the reason he came in the room in the first place. 

“Your mother called,” he explains. “Said there was a plan and something about Friday night.”  
  
He’s already standing up, running his fingers through his hair in a way that probably isn’t supposed to be distracting. The magic in Emma’s center jumps. 

It makes Killian grin. 

“That’s not fair at all,” Emma grumbles, a lie they’re both only too aware of. She holds her hand out, willing herself not to react when he takes it, but that’s a losing battle and they only win those in this household. 

This family. 

They’re a family. 

“Your highness,” Killian says with a smirk, and Henry gags when they steal kisses on the walk to Granny’s, arms twisted and the future laid out at their feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went on some kind of season five emotional spiral a couple weeks ago and got a very nice message on Tumblr asking me to write those said season five emotions and like...this happened in a two-hour session of just slamming on my laptop. 
> 
> And, with that, I think we're good to close the metaphorical book on this set of prompts. There are lot of words here and you guys have been consistently wonderful at reading them and sending them and then reading them some more. It's been real nice. I've got a ridiculous backlog of fic sitting in my docs, so I won't be going anywhere (and will continue to fill prompts if you send them) but I'm also trying to focus on some of my own stuff and original ideas. 
> 
> As always, come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


End file.
